


Haunt

by zedtheunicorn



Series: Haunt [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abbadon, Angels, Angry Dean Winchester, Angry John Winchester, Angry Sam Winchester, Angst, Big Brother Dean, Brother Feels, Character Death, Conflicted Crowley, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Death, Demon Dean Winchester, Demons, Destiel - Freeform, Evil Dean Winchester, F/M, Fallen Angels, Fallen Castiel, Feels, Ghosts, Hell, Hellhounds, Hurt Castiel, Hurt Crowley, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Irony, M/M, Men of Letters, Men of Letters Bunker, Original Character(s), POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Castiel, Protective Dean, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Teenage Winchesters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-28
Updated: 2013-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-16 09:45:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 38
Words: 22,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/860722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zedtheunicorn/pseuds/zedtheunicorn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's nineteen, taking off from his family for a break. A "Road Trip," he calls it, but it's running away. Running from hunting, seeing innocent people being ripped to pieces right before his eyes. Running from being a disappointment to his father, from his mess of a life. He just wants to get away, even if it's for a day or two. Except, his life won't let him alone. Bad luck has followed him.<br/>It's the first time he learns he can't escape from the life.<br/>----<br/>After a case gone awry, after the angels fell, Dean can't help but think nothing will ever go right again.<br/>It's the first time he thinks of Olivia in years. He'd expected her when the witnesses rose, when Osiris called for the third witness, but she never appeared.<br/>He's still waiting for another bad event, almost hoping for it.<br/>Maybe then she'll come back.<br/>----<br/>Dean thinks Olivia's memory can be ignored, buried, left as if it didn't exist, after so many years of hoping she'd come back. The life of a hunter has always been unforgiving, and this time it's no different.<br/>Cas doesn't have the power to pull him out of harm's way anymore.<br/>Follow the link on the series page to the sequel: Relinquish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Don't let me see the guilt in my eyes, reflected in yours

If anyone who knew Dean at the age of nineteen said to him he’d follow some chick to a basement bar, he’d laugh and ask what they’d been smoking. The hunter instincts were still rough around the edges, but a bar with no other exits sung of a death trap. Especially in a town that seemed to have little resources for emergency services. The girl was hot enough that he would have followed her _anywhere_ , even if he hadn’t lost count of the shot glasses he’d turned upside down. Sure, the bar was alright. It was dark, the air thick with the smell of good whisky. The rare kind that didn't peer too close at I.D.s. The thin walls almost shuddered in their foundations with music he didn’t want to recognise. He didn’t want to be reminded.

In this dark, smoky bar, she was everything.

Weaving past the crowd at the bar, she led him by the hand to a table. Her drink was held high above her short brown curls in the other. His skin seemed more alive at her touch. Living, and not robotic. For once, a smile came easily.

“So,” she started.  “Four dives down and you’re still coherent _and_ upright.”

He smirked, leaning forward on the alcohol-soaked table.

“Why, do you floor all the other guys?” he asked, downing another shot and putting the glass upside down on the table. It was a good job he’d been drinking for _years_ even at this point – she seemed just as practiced. He didn’t want to be shown up. “Olivia _._ ” He turned the name over in his head, and liked the way it sounded.

She grinned. “You’re a rare creature,” she leaned forward, pushing a stray curl out of her light grey eyes.

The playful glint in her eyes was too geniune to be malice. It screamed sincere. It howled human so loudly it nearly transcended into something better. The thought kept his hunter senses calm enough to remain under the alcohol haze. It kept him from being on edge.

 _Yeah, I bet no one you know spends every night screaming their heads off, expecting to get their guts ripped out_. Swallowing distractedly, he realised she was waiting for a reply.

“I could say the same thing.”

“And I bet you say that to all the girls.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “What’s a pretty face like yours doing in a town like this?”

_Just me, my baby, the open road. Not being a soldier to a war that’s going to get me killed. Not a son to drill sergeant, chasing a monster for a ghost never coming back._

“Passing through,” he said easily.

“Mm. That doesn’t sound like a long time, Dean.” She looked disappointed. He couldn’t stand it.

The expression was an echo of his Dad’s, his still snot-nosed little brother’s.

“Oh, I dunno. There are things that could make me stay,” the words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. _Dude, why are you being so fucking corny?_

Olivia’s eyebrows rose. At least that expression had gone from her face, banishing his family from his thoughts. “ _Please_ tell me you’re not reading out of a book promising to get the girl of your dreams.”

He laughed and she laughed with him. The sound was the best thing he’d heard in a while, putting his hands up to surrender. “Alright, no more corn. It was an accident, swear.”

To his surprise, she got up. She was leaving. And he’d blown it – just like he’d ruined everything. He wanted to hit something, upturn the table, so it would remember him when she wouldn’t, when she’d just _carry on_ like everyone else did without miserable existence. His life came back in a rush – a running theme of broken trust alienation, just waiting for the moment he’d sink under-

She sat on him.

The lingering sense of hurt, mixed with shock sent his heart hammering more than any hunt in his life. The intimacy was more intoxicating than anything he’d had that night. Olivia smelled like lavender and liquor, a pleasant cloud that settled over him. It was addictive. In the close proximity, he noticed how the curl she’d been trying to brush out of her face just wouldn’t budge, but it couldn’t hide the intense look in her eyes.  Her irises had tiny flecks of blue in the light grey. 

His eyebrows rose, his hands immediately on her hips before he could stop himself, and he couldn’t help but notice how well they fit together.  

Another smile curled her lips. She wound her arms around his neck. “Okay, pretty face. How about we see how many bottles we can finish off before you even think about deciding you wanna hit the road, and leave my ass in the dust?”

He smiled, then. Not the flirty smirk that cut corners and devoured small talk. A genuine one that he could feel pulling at his eyes.

She was a tonic to the nightmare of his life.

Dean couldn’t help but notice the way she looked at him. Or, the way he’d been looking at her. It wasn’t the usual _I want you tonight,_ no. That seemed tragic. Anything less than something permanent just screamed injustice, as long as she wanted him.

“I’m game,” he replied. “But first…”

“If you were going to say something about my ass, Dean, that admission about reading that book is coming out,” she growled, and grabbed his face in both hands, further closing the gap between them.

She was a dream.

The hair on his arms rose as something rumbled, louder than the music could mask.


	2. To be honest is to kill with a cruel heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More to come.

“What -“

_Why are you always a disappointment, son?_

“Oh fuck.”

He opened his eyes, not sure how or when he’d closed them. His lungs tried to expel the dust that settled. Dean couldn’t see a thing. Vaguely, he was aware of Olivia sitting- no, _lying_ on him. He seemed to be crumpled on what was once the chair. His head felt strange, as if it wasn’t solid, a shapeless mass of meat that lost its original purpose, pressed against something soft. He became aware that the thing pressed against his face _moved._ Swallowing, he tried to say something.

“Dean?"

He groaned, and realised someone had spoken.

"What the fuck?" He could feel the long, controlled breaths she was taking, and the vibration of her voice as it shook.

“Dean…I’m glad you’re not dead.”

…. _Dead?_ “It takes more than a weight of a nineteen year old to crush me, honey,” he laughed weakly, and didn’t know why. It wasn’t funny. His ribs ached. Everything ached where nerve endings weren't howling.

“Well, that’s something." She started hyperventilating.

_Huh?_

Slowly, he lifted his head. His shirt stuck to his chest…curiously soaked. The skin of his torso and neck were strangely slick.

His thoughts took an agonisingly long time to reach the surface.

While gravity had tried to crush him with her weight, it had done a better job with Olivia.

A metal pipe sat embedded in her soft stomach, the end viciously sharp. It was her blood soaking his shirt, his skin.

Nausea rolled in his stomach.

 

_Holy fuck_

_No_


	3. Trying is the excuse from the desperate

At the smell of blood, his hunter senses finally rose to the surface. He hadn’t imagined the walls shuddering when he’d entered. From the eerie silence, they were the only ones left alive, in a heap of wood and plaster. He hated to think what was underneath.

Above them, a solid wooden beam loomed precariously, the only part of the ceiling left intact.

“Olivia. It’s gunna be okay. Are you hurt anywhere else?” Gingerly, he pushed some debris away from them, testing each part beforehand, making sure nothing else would fall on them when he disturbed it.

She laughed weakly. “Are you kidding, Dean? Your bullshit is stinging more than my bones.”

That quelled some of the panic. She was still fully conscious, observant and honest.

It made his heart hurt.

He coughed again, jostling her. She hissed in pain.

“Sorry,” he whispered. “We’re going to get out of this. Just let me…just let me think, alright?” He was losing time. Every second that ticked by made nightmare possibilities more likely than they already were: the wooden column falling and crushing them, her bleeding out…

“Listen, Olivia. I…I’m going to try and get out from under you, alright?”

It took her a worryingly long time to reply.

“You gotta try, right?” her voice cracked.

As delicately as he could, he eased himself upward as much as he dared, and then stopped, gasping for breath. For a second he closed his eyes.

“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, her voice wavering. His heart seemed to twist in his chest, and he couldn’t take it. Again, he was back in his own shitty life, the life that would kill everyone he got attached to, one way or another. His presence was poison. He tried to think of what monster could drop a bar, in a need to be useful, to quieten the helplessness. That awful childhood inadequacy.

He heard his Dad’s voice in his head. _What the fuck, boy? You can’t afford to be sloppy. Might as well start the fire that'll burn your bones, you're so willing to go –_

“We’re going to get out of here, I swear,” he said, hoping to drown it out, to think past it.

“Then you - better move, pretty face.”

 

He tried again to move from under her. With agonising slowness, he slipped out from under her, his back against sharp debris. He was careful to support her head.

“See? No sweat,” he panted.

She eyed him as incredulously as she could, from the difficult angle. “Rare creature,” she muttered.  “Do you know what you’re doing?”

_More than you know…but not enough_

“My Dad taught me a few things.”


	4. You're not the first, nor the last, don't ever stop haunting me

Finally able to control his line of sight better, he surveyed the damage she’d taken. She was pinned to the debris by the pipe.

“Fuck,” he swore softly. “The only way we're getting out is gunna hurt.” As gently as he could, he lowered her head to his knees, and wrapped both hands around the pipe.

“Tell me something I don’t know,” her hands wrapped around his.

“Three, two, _one- ”_

She screamed, and it would be etched in every scream on every hunt he went on.

He threw the pipe to the side and tore his t-shirt off, wrapping it around the wound tightly.

He gathered her in his arms as quickly as he could, trying not to move her too much.

“Shit,” she gasped. "Fuck."

“You're okay. Alright? We're okay."

Cautiously, with each step he tested his footing, surveying their surroundings and trying to make sure she didn’t slip in his blood soaked grip –

A hand came to his chest, making him jump, almost dropping her.

“Nice abs, Dean.” He grinned at that, and carried on picking his way across the debris, looking for a way out.

Hoping.

“Thanks. But can we leave ab admiring until later?”

“You had your _admiring_ moment. Let me have mine,” she replied, a wicked look in her eye, underneath those curls.

He stopped, noticing the fire escape door. A foot of debris lay in front of it, but -

Somehow, it looked moveable.

“We’re gunna get out of here, Olivia,” he said, with certainty.

He gently set her down, noticing grimly how the colour of his shirt has gotten much darker. He moved over to the debris, shifting it as quick as he can. Sharp enough to slice his hands open, he hardly felt it, _knowing_ that they were almost out. It took him a few times to ram the door open, and each time he did dust rained on his head, sparking fear. It was their only chance.

But it was _open._

Fresh air rushed in, cold, clear and sweet.

The next thing he knew, he was a clear distance outside, Olivia’s arms wrapped around his neck, her head pressed against his bare shoulder.

“Let’s just…stay here a minute,” her voice was muffled. He felt her lips move on his bare skin as she spoke. It made him shiver more than the outside air could draw from him. “At least until your breathing calms down, Dean,” she added, seeming to sense the objection that was imminent. Gently, he buried his face in her hair, and became aware of a sharp pain in his leg, needle points of hot-white agony across his arms.

The silence was calm, somewhat resigned, and he refused to think why.

“Going to ruin your pretty face. Getting blood in ...hair,” he heard her sigh. It made him smile.

“I told you we’d get out.”

“Mm.” Olivia’s bloody hand came to his face, and her eyes took an age to find him. Her eyes were dull, her smile weak. It filled him with fear that turned his bones unmovable, reminiscent of the countless times of seeing his brother, his Dad, lying in some dingy shack at the mercy of a monster, in a town they were supposed to leave the week before. The kind that would haunt him for weeks afterward. Every time they got knocked down was a time he wasn’t sure they’d get up again.

The smile froze, and her tight hold on his face became loose.

Slowly, he lowers them to the cold concrete. He sits and wraps himself around her as tightly as he can, and waits for her skin to go cold. The tears slipped past his closed eyes as he buried his face in her curls.

His presence was poison.

\---

Numbly and out of habit, he dug the list of motels and aliases his Dad had scrawled. The string of numbers were new, slipped quietly into his pocket like a burglar stealing the only thing he had left. The pretence of a life that couldn't be his. Co-ordinates. An order to return. Nothing else from his father. Expecting Dean to just...carry on.

He half-limped, half dragged his stupid leg across the road. Since the bar crawl, it was a long way to the Impala. The pain in his leg reminds him. He pulls out the hipflask he’d pocketed from Bobby’s. Impossibly, it’s not damaged.

_Okay, pretty face. How about we see how many bottles we can finish off before you even think about deciding you wanna hit the road, and leave my ass in the dust._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end?


	5. Why can't you see through those glass eyes of yours?

Just for a minute, his ruined hand rested on the hood of the Impala, its familiarity couldn't be the tonic he wanted. Normally, he’d condemn anyone for touching the paint, even himself, but…he needed to stop. Just to…stop. The cool temperature of the car helped a little.

There wasn’t an excuse to stay. He knew that. There had been no signs of any monster he had taught himself to recognise. There was nothing but to answer the order weighing in his pocket, like the guilt between his lungs. It took him awhile to convince himself to get in, his emotions wrestling with the ingrained need to obey his father.

They needed him. Some stupid hunt, again. Did they really need another shotgun? Another chance for something to go wrong? Another nightmare to repeat on the back of his eyelids, more screams than his own could drown out. Just for once, all he wanted was a break. Couldn’t he run from his own life? He knew the answer to that, now.

The sun was coming up. Someone was bound to see him soon, if he didn’t drive. He imagined what it would look like to someone who hadn’t been there; most of his body covered in blood, clothes torn to hell, gashes everywhere, and wide eyes he couldn’t seem to close.

He couldn’t face another person right now.

The soft _thump_   of the glove box opening made him wince. Jumping at the slightest sound, the slightest sensation he didn’t anticipate, he knew the drive back would be hell. He fished out the first aid-kit and took out the green army figure. Dean knew he’d left it there to piss off Dad – _anything_ to piss off the man. No doubt they’d be screaming over it right about now…louder than the banshee they were hunting. Probably.

 _Why_ didn’t the damn bag have a needle and some thread? He swore. For now, the thin, itchy bandages would have to do. He patched himself up as quickly as he could, using the limited cotton sparingly, hoping they would hold on the drive.

The impala’s engine wheezed. Like everything, it had failed him.

“Come on, baby! Of _all_ the times you could’ve-” He groaned. _This can’t be happening._

On the third try, it stuttered back to life. He sighed with relief, leaning his head against the cool steering wheel. When he closed his eyes, the only thing he could see was her. Staring into the mirror – he noticed how glassy his eyes were, vulnerable and weak. He was just some stupid kid in his Dad’s car that couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t stop the sobs.

He had to decide where to go, which motel to hit. The co-ordinates weren’t enough on their own – he couldn’t just _stroll_ somewhere caked in blood. There was no way he could just go to the town he thought Dad and Sam were in – they’d have probably moved on and found another hunt. The man wouldn’t stop long enough in a mouldy motel to use the phone.

He jumped as a noise blared inside the car.  It took him a second to realise what it was, and turned the headlights back off, his hand shakier than when it had knocked them in the first place.

_I sent you the co-ordinates nearly nineteen hours ago._

"Shut up," he snarled, and slammed his foot on the pedal.


	6. Hold your breath or die of fear, darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters are going to be shorter but more frequent.

“Dad,” the word slipped out before he could stop it. It sounded weak, childish. It sounded like he’d been crying, his voice a pathetic croak. It was all of those things. He knew it wouldn’t slip past unnoticed.

Some part of him knew he was hallucinating. Letting his Dad's voice worm its way in, again. It was all he could do to focus on the deserted road, the sun already burning its way through the sky. Mechanical, again. Following each turn in the road with precision. Reduced to the soldier he hated. 

  _Where are you?_

Sammy's voice, still raw from starting the latest shouting match.

He glanced in the rear-view mirror at the back seat, feeling the tears slip down his face, refusing to acknowledge their presence in the glass.

He sagged back against the seat, struggling to breathe normally. 

"Not there," he said. "Like I should be."

Olivia would have told Dean to stop crying.

She would have caught him off guard and punched his Dad in the face. He wasn't sure how he knew.

_I just need - what do I need?_

The question that had no answer, always led to one road.

All the way through the fourteen hour drive, he saw her sitting next to him, curled up on the passenger side, watching out the window.

It took everything he had to remind himself she wasn’t there, to not turn and just _look_ , instead of keeping his eyes on the road. It became worse very, very quickly.

“Dean, where are we going?”

He didn’t let his eyes stray. He was sweating, the cotton itchy on his skin, waiting for the bandages to give way.

“Ignoring me. Didn't peg for an asshole.”

Dean couldn’t reply. If he did – he just knew something bad what happen, but he couldn’t say what it was. It was different with his Dad. He wasn't dead, and the voice was still Dean's. This wasn't.

“Hey – pretty face, did you notice I’m dead?”    

The car almost stuttered to a halt on the uneven road, turning red in the sunrise. It hurt to look at it. It would hurt more to look at her.

“It wasn’t really a shock, was it? Did you notice I saved your life, by sitting on you? Happy accident,” her voice stung with sarcasm and hurt.

He half closed his eyes, trying desperately to see through fresh tears, just to keep going, though a part of him insisted it was pointless. He couldn’t last fourteen hours, exhausted, crying, hallucinating.

He’d been wrong to think he could get away, even for a minute. The few hours that he’d been relaxed and happy had cost Olivia’s life. A heavy price so he could hide his useless head away from his selfish existence. Another mistake.

“Are we there yet?”

 The next thing he knew, the car window was rolled down and she wasn’t there. Someone was leaning in the window, talking to him. He noticed with panic there was a shotgun aimed at him.

The short figure peered at him, and withdrew the gun from the car with a sigh.

“Thought you were your Daddy for a minute there. Let me get a look at you, boy."

The relief that attacked him, seeing the weathered, gruff face was relentless. It was the concerned look in Bobby's eyes that had Dean opening the door and throwing his arms around him.


	7. Be dead, and know that dreaming is no longer your place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been awhile right?

Something cold splashed him in the face, making him jump. It took Dean awhile to recognise the person looking at him with squinted eyes, under a scruffy baseball cap.

His whole body ached, sitting on the edge of the bath. His skin itched where the dried blood cracked with movement, burning everywhere else.

“You pick a fight with a Banshee and a hedge trimmer?”

“I didn’t go to Orlando, Bobby,” he confessed, waiting for the ultimatum he was sure would come.

"Give me more credit than that," Bobby growled, his touch careful on Dean's arm as he wound a fresh bandage over the stitches. Always careful, unlike John. 

“I knew you wouldn’t, even before John spent half the night trying to bitch down the phone to me about you. Can’t say I liked listening to the rotten bastard,” he growled. Dean was touched at the…protectiveness in Bobby’s voice. It also made him feel supremely uncomfortable. He didn’t know what to say, he wasn’t used to it.

“Yeah…um…” He tried to search for anything to reply, something to fill the silence that reminded him of her. He was afraid it was big enough for her to come back again. He wished she would, but the hunter in him protested. It wasn’t natural. She was dead. Gone. That was the way she was supposed to stay.

“Dean.”

“Hm?” His head snapped up, not sure how his gaze had hit the dirt again. Rumsfeld’s yaps in the yard drifted through the frosted window.

“Don’t try and feed me some bullshit story,” his voice was uncharacteristically soft, a rumble. Dean was glad he focused on the bottles of alcohol lined across the sink A half-red, half-black thumbprint rested on the white lid. Blood and motor-oil. As if he could read his thoughts, Bobby sighed.

It was the reason Dean had come to him. He knew Bobby wasn’t an idiot – he'd know and he'd wait for the answers. He wouldn't push Dean too far, in case he didn’t come back. He treated Dean like a human, like a son. Unlike Dad, who never expected him to leave his side unless ordered to do so.

Bobby gestured to Dean’s battered body. “This wasn't no bar fight, boy. Give me something to go on."

Dean was already shaking his head, his shoulders hunching. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” his voice cracked.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. He gripped the aged porcelain of the bath of the porch railing in an automatic effort to control himself. Skin dyed red against the cracked, near-yellow.

“I get it, Dean. I-”

Bobby’s words faded out as Dean felt Olivia touch his hand. He tried to keep his expression neutral, willing himself not to look down. She was back.

“Don’t worry,” he heard her chuckle. “I won’t mess with you too much.”

He was suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how everything ached where there wasn’t a bruise or a cut, how everything stung with razor teeth where there was.  

That was the brief, split second warning.

He slumped, propelling him forward into the older man. Rough hands scrabbled to catch him.


	8. Hope behind every stitch, you'll return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I complied the sequels into one because it was getting difficult to keep track

“You’re real bad at patching yourself up, kid,” Bobby grumbled, momentarily distracting Dean from his throbbing head and hands. Bobby wrapped Dean’s right hand tightly in new bandages, trying not to pull the fresh, pain-hot stitches. "And you better warn me if you're gunna pass out on me again. Least you didn't feel the worst parts, huh?"

Dean wrinkled his nose, the strong smell of disinfectant burnt into his nostrils. It was like the smell of a hospital with a few layers of fear and desperation removed.

“I could bleed out with the amount of times you stabbed me with that damn needle,” Dean retorted, just glad he couldn’t see Olivia. The timing of him blacking out and her touching him was too close. It couldn’t have been coincidence. Hopefully, it was just a hallucination. The shock, the guilt, _anything_ but her. He didn’t want to think about going back there. Hunting her.

“Quit your whining, boy.” Bobby finished bandaging his hand and purposefully tapped it, making Dean wince as the pain flared. He went to close the old tin that held his medical supplies.  “Whenever you get a cold no one hears the end of it,” he grumbled. The remark sounded more like Bobby was talking to himself than addressing Dean. "When you're in real bad shape no one knows, kid. You gotta stop doing that."

Dean let out the breath he'd been holding. Bobby's hands shook against Dean's shoulders, for some reason Dean couldn't place.

Maybe it was the hangover Bobby had claimed to be plaguing him.

Still, Dean was glad Bobby hadn’t asked again. Soon he'd have to face his Dad's disappointment and anger. Sammy's _you're so selfish Dean, we were worried about you_. But that was a long way off, confrontations that didn't belong in bathrooms used for stitching skin together and the half-hearted scoldings of an old man who gave a shit about Dean himself, and not the worry he caused.

"There's some painkillers next to your arm somewhere."

“Bobby?”

The man didn’t turn, but his hands halted in tidying the contents of the tin.

“You said you knew before Dad rang. Knew that I wouldn’t go, I mean. How?”  
 Bobby turned, a smile on his face Dean couldn’t quite decipher.

“If we’d have all got out when we felt like it Dean, there wouldn't be a hunter on this damn planet. Having said that-”

Dean's gaze switched to behind Bobby. Olivia was leaning against the sink, looking sympathetic. She was still covered in dirt and blood.

"I can't seem to move away from you, any more than you could run from your own head. I know you don't want me... _haunting_ you. So, you won't see me, but I'll be around. I guess I’ll be _passing through_ , with you, pretty face," she was suddenly next to him, a hand on his cheek, before she disappeared.

He heard his Dad's voice in his head, screaming at him to go back, and make her gone forever.

For the first time, he didn't listen.  She didn't want to be _gone_ any more than he did. If he was smart about it, no one would notice her presence. No one would find out about her, and she'd be safe.

It was the least he could do for her.


	9. Pull out the knife, you're needed elsewhere

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a case gone awry, after the angels fell, Dean can't help but think nothing will ever go right again.  
> It's the first time he thinks of Olivia in years. He'd expected her when the witnesses rose, when Osiris called for the third witness, but she never appeared.  
> He's still waiting for another bad event, almost hoping for it.  
> Maybe then she'll come back.

_“Cas!”_

Yet again, Dean went flying backwards, cracking his head on an unforgiving wall. Idiot! _Stop worrying about him and –_ A blow sank into his stomach, the air escaping his lungs in a rush. Again the fist landed. Every blow told him he was out of practice. He tried to cough, to shake off the pain – _something_ , but there was no air in his lungs for that. Something was pressing him into the rough concrete, and through that, he could feel Ruby’s knife pressed against his back. _Why_ hadn’t he got it out when he felt something was off?

Since when did demons guard crypts?

What good was it for Castiel to seek asylum when he was cast out from heaven, with Dean, if he couldn’t protect him? Why the hell had he taken up a case and brought him along?

“Wings ain’t blasting holes in my friends. Guess you're both useless now,” a voice hissed in his ear, as another blow landed, this time to his face. “I can see those feathers, all cut up and burnt. If there's anything we know, it's  _fire_ sloughing meat off bones.”

Nails raked his face as the demon leaned over him. All he could see was a tide of long black hair and the glint reflecting off its eyes, but he felt it shift its weight, just for a second. Anger rose to his defence.That was all he needed, to arch his back and free the knife, slicing her across the face. She fell back with a outraged scream. Dean scrambled to stand, unsteadily advancing on her.

“Don’t be so sure,” he growled.

She saw the engraving on the knife, fear immediately replacing the malice in her eyes. She stood and skittered backwards, a hand covering the red line that stretched the width of her face.

If Cas hadn’t yelled in pain, if Dean’s head hadn’t automatically whipped in his direction, the hunt would have been cleaner.

Dean saw a flurry of beige as Cas fell under two demons, his trench coat billowing upwards. Fear constricted his chest. They thought Cas was the bigger problem. The only thing his friend still had on his side was the righteousness still engraved into his brain, willing to pit himself against anything so Dean get as hurt. Dean's tight grip loosened on the knife, giving the demon the one chance she needed.

She turned the knife around, her hand wrapping over his, and sank it into his abdomen. He stepped backwards, almost as if he could step out of the knife lodged in him.

She turned and fled, abandoning the remaining two demons.

The breath rushed out of him, and he had to fight to stand.

“S-son of-” Dean wheezed, unable to suck more air into his lungs. His hands hovered near the knife’s hilt. He gritted his teeth, glancing at the demons. It wasn’t like they had the colt, now. The shotgun…he couldn’t remember what happened to that. Everything was hazy. His brain was screaming, pain sensors bellowing. His fingers grazed the smooth wood and he breathed, gripped the hilt in both hands, trying to keep them as steady as he could. The more rational side of his brain screamed to leave it alone, to wait until Cas could help him. It was a voice getting smaller. The precious time he had was hurtling Cas closer to death, and Dean closer to useless. Far away, Cas was snarling in Enochian.

_It can't end this way._

Rage had his vision flickering, the knife in a bloodied hand. His blood, warming his skin. Dean hunched, one hand pressed to the ragged hole. It took him a while remember how to move, concentrating so hard on keeping upright. If he fell over, it would be game over. Every step, he was aware of the blood dripping through his hand, onto the floor, probably on his shoes. Spilling onto a crypt that had never seen blood, only bones and dust.

The first demon was easy, the closest. A simple matter of sinking the blade into its back, and it was dead. The second rounded on him, punching him in the face, finally disturbing Dean’s careful balance. By some luck, he managed to hold onto the knife as he went down, slashing the demon’s torso. Not deep enough.

Dean lost count of the amount of times it hit him, but finally – somehow – the demon lost its balance and landed on top of him, the blade sinking in. With a flash of light illuminating its ribcage, the hateful expression on its face faded.

He coughed, letting his head sink back with relief. Ignoring the blank stare on the body crushing him, he shoved. Its face sank closer to his and he recoiled, back to the concrete.

The room spun.


	10. Sever the trust, it's worth more to lie through your teeth

He knew that if he didn’t get up, if he couldn't push the demon off, or drag himself over to Cas, one or both of them would probably die in the stinking crypt. No doubt that bitch of a demon would come back with more _friends_ if they stayed.

He just couldn't move.

Dean thought of his brother, wondering which book his head was stuck in now. Dealing with another hunt. The strangled silence, pressing in on the both of them, knowing there was something bigger neither of them could see yet. Fear he hadn't felt since his Dad died pulled at his gut.

His body protested, slow to respond, all pain sensors, drowsy panic and sweat. Definitely out of practice. The smell of blood filled his nostrils. If he hadn’t been so used to it, it would have made him sick. There was no way he could stand, now. He would black out. He rolled onto his stomach, hissing as his ruined stomach met grit. Inch by inch, he dragged himself towards his limited view of Cas. All he could see was his crumpled form. The trench coat enveloped him like a child putting every ounce of trust in a thin layer of cotton, believing it would protect them from the night’s terrors. From the monsters that were real.

The demon was right. There was something about Cas that was incredibly vulnerable, without his grace. With all the strength burned away, all he had was his resolve, and that was fading. He was really just a child in a house full of strangers, waiting for a sole parent that was never going to show, unwilling to find his siblings and brave the world that had become so cruel.

Finally, he got close enough that his fingers brushed against Cas’s temple. Blood-soaked skin against blood-soaked skin. Dean was facing Castiel’s body at a vertical angle. This was hard for Dean to try and wake the guy up while trying to move as little as possible. Impossible to work out how much damage he’d taken, apart from the bloodied nose and bleeding forehead.

"Cas?"

Cas didn’t stir.

He ignored the way his stomach burned; the pain was spreading outwards and up his spine. He needed to get Cas up, at least have him semi-conscious. Digging deep in his last reserves of energy, he pushed himself further towards Cas, a few more inches. The pain flared, a white-hot fire licking up his ribs. Before he could stop it, his body had rolled over, onto his back. It gave him a frustrating view of the cobwebbed stone ceiling, its archaic arches baring runes he had never seen in his life. 

 _Hurt me so I understand._ The thought was ragged, and he had no idea where it had come from.

Someone was shaking him, prying his eyelids open with gentle fingers, letting in the searing light. Dean heard someone groaning, and realised it was him. The taste of blood wouldn’t leave his mouth, no matter how many times he swallowed.

“We need to leave,” Castiel’s hands rested on his shoulders, a firm grip in the haze of pain. Dean lifted his head. His stomach lurched, emphasizing the current, literal hole in it. “Cas?”

“Hello, Dean.” Cas’s face was drawn, bruised and swollen. Underneath the blood, he could see the concern, the piercing gaze that had dimmed since he had fallen.

The instant Dean felt Cas’s hands brush his stomach Dean caught them in a strong grip. In Cas’s inexperienced, fumbling grasp, it would only make it worse. He couldn't do worse, right now. He wanted to sleep, he wanted the pain to stay. So he could feel something that wasn't being a disappointment. So he could be nothing at all.

“Don’t,” he wheezed, light-headed, still hating himself for protesting. For not protesting enough. “It’s fine.”

Cas frowned, not understanding. “It’s not fine, Dean. You’re in pain.”

The pain made him laugh throatily, a gurgle of blood. “You don’t know what fine is. Or pain, not really.” The hurt crossed Cas’s face in an instant, and solidified into the expression of someone trying very, very hard. Dean didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was the agony tearing through his abdomen. "You- you can't just... _zap_ -"

Cas’s face was suddenly a lot further away. The next thing Dean knew, his vision was red, the world tilted sickeningly upright. Automatically, Dean’s hand gripped Cas’s shoulder, to try, failingly, to steady himself if nothing else. Every step was an awkward shuffle. His whole weight was on Cas’s shoulders, and he did nothing to support himself.

He was so tired. The other hand clapped to his stomach was slipping in a horrible wet grip.

The agony intensified. “N-no,” the protest came out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Cas-”

It was too much. Dean gritted his teeth in an attempt not to say anything else. Not once did Cas stop, or hesitate.

Dean couldn’t understand it. The pain was unbearable and Cas was making it _worse_ , just like he knew he would.

“It’s okay, Dean.” Blood welled up in Dean’s mouth, his head drooping against Cas’s shoulder.


	11. I'll try harder, this time on the bed of broken wings

Even before his cracked eyelids opened, he knew to stay still. Moving before calculating the damage was begging his bad luck to have another go. He felt groggy, a little more aware with the dull ache in his bones. His skin was damp with stale sweat, but no longer blood. He noticed a hand lying a few inches from him on the edge of the dingy motel bed, and stopped registering the injuries. The white plastic band was still on Cas's wrist, impossibly intact. If he craned his neck, ignoring the resulting pain, he could see the former angel awkwardly curled up in the alcove between the two beds. His battered face was resting on his knees.

Cas couldn’t seem to stand to be away from him, an awkwardness pulling at Dean's awareness. Cas was trying his hardest to keep his head above water, now he was practically human. He was trying his best to not change, to still be the same without the link to heaven. Dean was the acting symbol of familiarity in the twisted, cruel world where Cas couldn’t go home. A link to the past where he could. Or the less comforting, time of Team Free Will, before the guilt had settled itself on Cas's shoulders. It was heart-breaking. He didn't have the strength to be the last stand of Cas's resolve.

Dean shifted his weight onto his other side, ignoring the responding sharp burn.

_Thump._

_“_ Uhh...”

Confused, he knew the groan came from him, and wasn’t sure how the surface under him had changed. He was lying on something scratchy that smelled like stale sick and off booze. Something was digging into his temple. He felt sick.

“Son…of…”

“Dean? Can you hear the sound of my voice?”

Hands were on him, turning him onto his back. Fingers tugging at the top of his eyelids, the pulse in his neck. The pain made it hard to concentrate, but he had to ask.

“How’d we…get here?” His voice was dry and gravelly.

He tried to focus on Cas’s face, expecting an answer.

What he didn’t expect was to be hauled upwards back onto the bed, inviting a fresh wave of nausea.

Cas simply watched him, too close for comfort.

“…Cas….damn it.”

“The owner of this…guest house was very surprised when I turned up in her lobby carrying you,” Cas replied. “When she inquired, I lied.”

At Dean’s startled expression, he looked away and sighed as if admitting he’d done something wrong.

“Is that not what people do anymore? If they…want something, they lie?”


	12. Ignore my call, you're worth more to me than the world

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think there's Destiel creeping into my fic

Dean wasn’t sure he could explain anything, in the state he was in. Another question was begging for an answer. Dean wanted to shake his head, but it would only encourage the nausea, and how the room spun.

“I told her I was FBI, and that I needed a room that would not be disturbed.”

“That worked?”

“She was elderly and had a kind nature. I still have that…badge of validation you gave me,” Cas rumbled.

“It’s _identification,_ Cas,” Dean corrected, still not sure how he’d got past the main desk without someone ringing 911.

“Right.” Cas looked sheepish.

“How did you patch me up? Is…it” He trailed off, unsure, not wanting to hurt Cas’s feelings.

Cas frowned as if he didn’t understand the question. “The first aid-kit in your…baby, came with instructions,” he said. “They were simple in their directions, but it would not offer answers for curing your screaming in the night, no matter how many times I asked.”

Dean looked away. If he hadn’t known he’d been doing it for years, waking up in the same guilt drenched coat of sweat, his face might have flooded with heat, with embarrassment. Chagrin, maybe. There was nothing but simple truth in his expression. “Every hunt goes wrong, Cas.”

 “I have experienced enough of the lives of hunters to know, Dean,” Cas’s answering look spoke of someone who was tired of things being explained to them.

Dean sometimes forgot how many times Castiel had saved him, and his brother. He may have been isolated from his home, near enough powerless, and not able to remember there were now human needs he had to fulfil, but without him, the world would have gone to shit years ago.

There’d be no way Dean would have any sanity left. There’d be no Sam. No Dean. Hell, there’d probably be no _humans_ left.

“Yeah,” Dean murmured. “How bad did you get hit, back there?”

Cas shook his head.

“Yeah? Your face is a mess.”

Cas looked hurt, again. “My face suffered minor damage, Dean. It’s _fine_ , and yes, I know the dictionary definition,” he snapped, as if this was any valid argument.

The conclusion Castiel had reached made Dean laugh, a wheezy, pain-drunk chuckle. All of a sudden he was exhausted.

“Dean.”

“Hm?”

“I’m sorry, I should-”

“You don’t need to be sorry, man,” Dean interrupted, still breathless.

“No, Dean – I should have noticed, I’m sorry.”

Dean frowned, hearing a note of resignation in Cas’s voice, along with an element of self-loathing, which Dean hated immediately. It was an echo of his own he’d felt a thousand times over.

“What is it?” He tried to sit up, but Cas pushed him back against the bed gently.

“You’re bleeding again. The fall must have torn the stitches,” he sighed. “I’m going to need to do them again,” Dean recognised the loathing in Castiel’s voice, sending a wave of panic to wrack his remaining frayed nerves.

He didn’t know how well Castiel had patched him up in the first place. It wasn’t like the guy had trained to be a doctor.

_Cas using stitches?_

The next thing Dean knew, Cas had one hand pinning him down, keeping his shirt away from the wound. The other had set to work on delicately removing the torn stitches.

It was a difficult thing to watch – not just the curious sight of seeing your own skin sewn back together like cotton; it wasn’t something Dean could picture Cas ever doing.

It was like watching him actually do taxes.


	13. Let me beseech you to stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay this has become destiel I was not expecting that.  
> Can you tell I don't like orange juice?

It took Dean a long time to register the fact that Cas had said something.

“Perfecting the stitch is proving difficult,” Castiel grunted in apology.

“Awesome,” Dean gasped, trying to keep his breathing regular so his stomach would move as little as possible.

He failed, and threw his head back in pain yet again. “Any way you can ask the first-aid manual for some pain killers?”

“Sorry.”

Dean swore under his breath, just hoping Cas would hurry up and finish. Or at least get better at patching him up. No matter how delicate Cas’s fingers were, the needle was a tiny machete in his hands.

His body had had more than enough of the abuse it had been put through. Cas was talking again, but his voice was just a mumble.

There was a pint glass of orange juice in his face.

“Cas? What-”

With help, Dean sat up against the headboard, eyeing the glass as if it was going to attack him any second. “What. Is. That?” He growled.

Scowling, Cas tried to offer the glass slightly less forcefully. “Orange juice. It is a sweet beverage made from oranges, unfortunately also mixed with certain additives and preservatives such as-”

Dean held up a hand. “I know what orange juice is, Cas,” it was his turn to be exasperated at unnecessary explanations.

                Cas shrugged. It was clear he was struggling to understand Dean’s objection. “I would have acquired its much healthier brethren from Florida, except I can’t use my wings anymore,” he sighed, apologetic and resigned.  “You lost a lot of blood, Dean,” Cas’s gaze shifted from side to side, afraid to be confrontational even for a second. The grave tone was back in his gravelly voice. “The beverage will increase the sweetness levels in your blood.”

He was trying so hard.

It made Dean feel like a monster, more than he had in months. After a moment’s hesitation in battling his revulsion, Dean took the glass off him and gulped it down as fast as he could. He winced as the sickly sweet liquid passed through his sore throat. Despite the awful taste, it felt better.

Satisfied, Castiel sat back on the side of the bed, a far less intense proximity. Clearly, the task of getting Dean to drink orange juice had been a terrifying prospect, as if Dean’s life depended on its outcome.

“Thanks,” He groaned, tired again, sick of being exhausted, sick of being cared for by a guy who needed reminding to go to the bathroom and eat. He let the glass fall to the duvet with a soft clunk.

Speaking of which…

                Very slowly, Dean twisted to the side of the bed, swinging his legs over the edge, wary of overexerting himself.

                “Dean?” The world tilted again as Dean staggered upright with a groan, his brain screaming at him to not make any sudden movements. Firm hands gripped him and steadied him, bringing him as upright as possible without causing him further pain.

                The concerned blue gaze in such a close proximity was overwhelming. Cas seemed to be x-raying his battered soul, until Dean remembered he couldn’t do that anymore.

                It was a moment before he could reply, content to stay in the other man’s grip as long as possible. Dean’s breathing slowed down to a normal level, and the room tilted back to the angle it should have been. He could see the lines of exhaustion on Cas’s face, and the worry that was the culprit. “Bathroom, Cas,” Dean finally murmured, looking down, unable to hold off any longer, though he wished he could.

                “Of course,” Cas nodded. Seeing something in Dean’s expression Dean wasn’t aware of, he let go of him rather reluctantly. His hands hovered near Dean’s shoulders, as if part of him hoped Dean would just _fall_ into them.

 


	14. The anxiety is eating my heart, which has always been yours

It would be something Dean regretted, not trying to realise Cas’s hope in that moment.

“Do you need assistance, or shall I leave you to it?” Dean rested a hand on Cas’s shoulder without a thought. Cas’s lips twitched in a slightly disappointed smile.

It made Dean’s heart twist in an uncomfortable way.

“I’ll be fine, man. Don’t worry about me. How about you take five, huh? Sammy always complained running after me was exhausting,” Dean immediately regretted mentioning his brother.

He hadn’t seen Sam since he’d stopped him from curing Crowley of his nature. A mumbled excuse about “needing time.” He’d gotten it into his head that everything would be okay once Crowley was human – he wouldn’t have let Dean down ever again, be the hero of the hour.  All the people they couldn’t save wouldn’t have died for nothing. Jess, Mom, everything would have a damn purpose, and he blamed Dean for taking that away, for saving his life.

Unable to bear Cas’s too-knowing gaze, he turned away. With great care he made his way across the large room, and carefully closed the dark bathroom door behind him. He sighed, and leant against it, ignoring the sharp ache in his stomach, and the just-as-annoying mixture of emotion.

                With dread, he lifted the t-shirt Cas must have put him in, unsure as to what he’d find with Cas’s haphazard human medical skills.

A sigh of relief, heavy and uneven, escaped him. His hands left the fabric, his head sinking back against the wood with a dull _thunk._

The dark stitches were crude, messy, but there weren’t any loose ends. Cas had been as methodical as he could, as careful as he could manage. A better job than Dean could have done on himself. Where Dean would have been angry at getting hurt, careless with the needle in an attempt to be quick, Cas had taken great care to not hurt Dean further. He deserved more than what Dean thought of him.

The shower was too hot, the water pounding down on his skin, on the stitches, but it felt good, drawing out the stiffness in his limbs, relaxing his muscles, washing the dirt and the sweat off his skin.

When he could no longer stand the heat of the damp bathroom, and the absence of Cas’s concerned gaze, he wrapped a towel around himself and opened the door, to find Cas standing there, waiting anxiously.

His eyebrows rose, but the shock he expected didn’t come. He was too used to the lack of personal space every time he turned his head.

“Are you okay? You were taking a long time,” Cas explained, sheepishly, waiting for a shocked outburst he was sure would come.

Dean smiled awkwardly. “Fine, Cas,” after a moment of just contentedly looking at Cas, he carefully manoeuvred around the fallen angel so Cas was in the bathroom doorway. “Your turn,” he said, leaning close to Cas’s face.

Cas cocked his head in confusion, Dean could feel the disturbed air reached him with the movement. “My turn what?”

“You didn’t exactly take five, did you?”

Cas shook his head. “I tried to sleep for a very short while, but the guest house features poor resting facilities. The idea of you…falling or passing out grated on my mind too much for me to ‘take five,’” Cas used quotation marks, making Dean lean back slightly.

A pause. “Alright. How about you get yourself cleaned up and meet me downstairs for some food, huh?”

“Will you manage without-”

“ _Cas.”_

Cas nodded, looking down. “I look forward to meeting you downstairs, Dean.”

Before Dean could blink, Cas had enveloped him in a tight hug.


	15. Listen to the sound of shattering too late, I was already broken

The hallway was huge, its walls littered with paintings. It was somewhat reminiscent of the inn he and Sam had once hunted the ghost of a kid in. Too big, too old, and too damn dusty. He followed the smell of something homemade through winding corridors of old wood. It led him to an elaborate archway, and behind it, a few rows of tables, deserted.

Finally.

 “Good to see you on your feet, young man,” a little old lady greeted him. The look that she gave him behind very thick glasses was surprisingly motherly. She led him to a table.

                “It’s uh, good to be on my feet,” he replied, slightly uncomfortable.

She smiled. “Your partner was very concerned about you,” he was sure there was a…scolding in there somewhere.

_Partner?_

He frowned, and then instantly realised his mistake.

“The other agent. The poor man looked very frightened, clutching you quite tightly.” She smiled. “Though, I have to say,” her voice lowered into a whisper, “I think you’re lucky to have each other.”

Before he could say anything, she’d patted his elbow and left, leaving him a flimsy menu in his stunned hand.

                He was still speechless when a figure sat down opposite him. When he finally turned to say something, he was again rendered silent.

                “I uh, borrowed some of your clothes, the ones you no longer seem to favour,” Cas said, running a hand through his wet hair self-consciously.

It was so strange seeing him in something other than his usual suit and trench coat. He didn’t look like Cas. He looked like a hunter.

“Good. You hungry?”

As if on cue, the little old lady appeared.

“I do not require sustenance, thank you.”

 Dean rolled his eyes. “Come on, Cas!”

“I don’t have the hunger pangs, Dean.”

Dean shrugged and put the menu down, his appetite gone. He wondered when it would be a good time to ask about the hunt. Probably never, but…

 He stared in surprise when Cas ordered whiskey.

The old lady chuckled and shuffled away. Dean turned to Cas.

“I seem to remember Bullet whiskey washed away my crushing sense of betrayal well,” Cas rumbled. “I find the warming sensation comforting.”

“This was on your bender, right?” Dean had to smile.

“Correct.”

After a moment of silence, Dean decided just to be honest.

“This R and R thing is nice and all, but let’s skip to the end, huh? Did you manage to salt and burn the thing before you dragged my ass out?”

Cas averted his eyes, he seemed to be trying to search carefully for words. “I was scared, Dean.”

“Scared?”

 “Yes, Dean. Scared.” Cas’s voice was brittle.

“Of what?”

Cas slammed his hand down on the table. “Is it really that difficult to guess? After everything, I was scared of losing you,” he snapped. “Once again I found myself responsible with you on the brink of death, Dean.”


	16. I want you to tell me I'm wrong

“Cas,” Dean shook his head. “Demons attacked us. Not you. Part of the _job_ is getting your ass kicked. You get up, you move on.” Cas had to see what he was trying to tell him - it _wasn't_ his fault Dean had gotten hurt. As for all the other times...Dean brushed over it, hoping Cas would just drop it. He regretted mentioning the hunt, but he had to know.

Deep down, he was disappointed Cas would put him first. Those innocent people would die with their brains screaming at them: _this is impossible, impossible._

Part of what drove Dean was to make as many people as he damn well could avoid that nasty, bloody end.

And he'd failed.

The damn ghost would come back as it did every ten years, and they had missed the window. He'd have to leave it to a hunter with half a brain, when the world tried to throw itself into shit as it always did.

As for the demons...he didn't even know what to think about that. There was no way of tracing them now.

Castiel stood, looking more like himself. “You don’t understand, Dean,” disappointment and frustration rung through his tired, gravelly voice.

Dean watched him walk away for a second, uneasiness coursing through him.

He would have followed, wrenched him back by the shoulder and _demanded_ to know what he meant.

Except, something cool touched his clenched fist.

Though he remained still, his heart twisted painfully in his chest.

It had been so long since he had seen her. He was afraid to move his gaze from Castiel’s exit.

Every time he had thought of her, he’d expected to be happy when she finally showed, elated to see her, even for a moment. The guilt rose up in him instead, a great agonizing mass of confusion and sadness.

He couldn’t bring himself to look anywhere near her direction.

Dean closed his eyes, feeling the cold lay itself on his cheek, unable to move. To breathe.  
Terrified she would go, frightened she’d stay.


	17. Bite your tongue and pretend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean thinks Olivia's memory can be ignored, buried, left as if it didn't exist, after so many years of hoping she'd come back. The life of a hunter has always been unforgiving, and this time it's no different.  
> Cas doesn't have the power to pull him out of harm's way anymore.

Dean opened the bunker door, allowing Cas to go before him with the bags, huffing as he went past. It made Dean smile, reminding him of when he was a kid, looking after Sam while Dad was hunting. He wasn’t entirely surprised to see the lights were already on.

The crappy car Dean had parked next to was obviously stolen.

Sam had got there before them, standing expectantly in the main room as Dean shut the heavy vault-like door behind him. The resounding _boom_ cut into the silence.

Sam gave him an almost sheepish smile before Dean went over and hugged him. He hadn’t realised how much he had missed his brother’s presence. It felt like something had been put back that he’d been missing. The underlying worry of feeling Olivia’s presence for the first time in years melted away. The hunt that had turned so crappy all of a sudden was just another part of the job he could deal with.

“Hey man,” he heard Sam say, and drew back.

“How’re you doing, Sammy?”

Sam shrugged. “No burning under my skin, so guess I’m fine.” He frowned. “You look a little…”

“Like crap?” Dean suggested.

“Well, yeah,” the frown deepened. “That’s one way to put it.”

“We uh -“

Sam’s eyebrows rose, and it was Dean’s turn to frown. Sam put his hands up in surrender, his expression saying _I didn’t say it, Dean._ He gave Sam a warning look. The dull pain in his stomach was making him irritable.

“ _Sam._ We were working a case, and it got ugly pretty quick. One of those – every ten years vengeful spirits. We missed the damn window.”

“And?”

“Some hell bitch stuck me with _Ruby’s knife_ in the crypt.” Dean held his hands up and let them fall back in frustration.

“How’d it manage to get the knife?”

Dean looked away, running a hand through his hair. “I got distracted, and then apparently Cas was too worried about me to finish the job, when the son of a bitch was _right there_ ,” Dean growled, just glad to get it out of his system.

Sam was looking behind Dean. “Hi, Cas,” he cleared his throat awkwardly.

For a brief second, Dean closed his eyes. Of _course_ Cas would hear him. Dreading the look on Cas’s face, he turned around slowly.

“Hello, Sam,” Cas said pointedly, his expression very controlled, the lines of his mouth grim. He faced Dean. “This son of a bitch can’t bring you back the next time you throw yourself into Death’s waiting hand,” his voice was quiet, but Dean still heard the waver in the rumbling tone.

After a moment, regret flitted across Cas’s face. He turned and left the room, not waiting to see the guilt plainly written on Dean’s features.

He sighed, avoiding Sam’s gaze.

“You’re going too hard on him, again, Dean,” Sam murmured.

“ _Sam.”_ He just wanted to be alone, he didn’t want to hear how wrong he was or Sam explaining Cas’s feelings. Dean already knew how the guy’s mind worked.

Sam left with a sigh, leaving Dean alone with the pain in his abdomen and his angry thoughts.


	18. The truth is lost under your broken screams

It took a while for Sam to find Cas. At first, he wasn’t sure he wanted to get involved, or where Cas would have headed in the bunker. Once he walked past Dean’s room and the door left ajar, he knew.

For a moment he lingered outside the door, still undecided. Dean had been harsh, and seeing Cas’s expression was like seeing a dog being kicked. With a deep breath, he pushed the door open.

Cas was unpacking Dean’s things.

Sam couldn’t bring himself to say anything. It wasn’t like he knew why Dean had taken it out on Cas. The self-righteousness Dean felt for a stranger didn’t compare to the protectiveness over Cas. There was something else bothering him.

“What is it you came to ask, Sam?” Cas sighed, throwing the now empty bag back on Dean’s bed.

Sam was slightly taken aback by this.

“Um…” He struggled for words to save him from the awkward silence.

Cas faced him and waited.

“You and Dean…what happened on that hunt?” He asked, trying to ask if Cas knew what was eating away at Dean without having to say it.

“You got that information first-hand from Dean, did you not? Or were you just…not listening?” Cas replied, exasperated.

“I know when something’s eating at him, Cas,” though he knew there was something up, he wasn’t convinced of his own words. He just wasn’t sure he could tell anymore.

“He’s been…odd since the hunt went wrong. He doesn’t seem to understand I value his life over a potential stranger’s,” Cas swallowed. “I was rendered unconscious after the demons attacked. It took my mind a while to process that the liquid soaking my clothes was not my blood, but Dean’s.” Cas’s gaze reached the floor, his skin slightly paler. “He was hardly near me. It had reached over a yard of uneven concrete. He’d pulled the knife out of his flesh to save me. I have no doubts he knew the risk.”

Despite knowing that Dean was okay –physically, at least, the description gave him chills. He couldn’t help but picture it, a sight he’d seen a thousand times. “Did you take him to the hospital?”

Cas shook his head. “I was scared of leaving him alone.  The very real possibility of his death, the idea that I can no longer protect him plagues me still,” he said. “I did everything I could, but I still don’t know. I cannot reach into his mind and stop whatever it is that haunts his sleep.”

 Sam sighed, unsure of what to say. “We’ll…find out what’s bothering him, Cas. I promise,” the words fell from Sam’s lips, but he didn’t believe them.

From the look on Cas’s face, he didn’t either.


	19. Won't you see?

**1998.**

Sam got out of the car, ignoring the stiffness in his limbs. Slamming the car door, he hoped to cut Dad’s words off just for a second. The drive had been hell, both of them worried and angry at Dean, taking it out on each other because there was nothing else but tension between them. He pushed the fringe out of his face, striding towards Bobby’s porch, hoping Dad wouldn’t catch up.

Bobby was already there, standing with his feet planted, arms crossed, scowling darkly. He was eyeing John as if his mere presence just pissed him off.  

“Hi, Bobby,” Sam cleared his throat.

“Sam,” Bobby said, not looking at him. “I wouldn’t go inside just yet, kid.”

 “Why not?” Sam frowned in confusion. Despite it, he remained where he was. He had a feeling Bobby’s reluctance to let him in was a result of Dad’s presence.

“Bobby,” John greeted stiffly behind him. “Mind telling me where that teenager of mine is?” Sam glanced at him and back to Bobby, noting the mutual distrust, and dislike. It made him slightly nervous. All he wanted to do was see Dean, and make sure he was actually alright. To make sure he hadn’t died from alcohol poisoning or something.

“Get your head out your ass, John. Don’t you have a demon to hunt?” Bobby grunted, his expression oddly protective.

A thought struck him. What if the reason Bobby didn’t want him to go inside was…Dean? He doubted Dean had been lying about the alcohol, but…there was something strange going on. There wasn’t anything unusual about Bobby and Dad’s exchange, but…

                “How about you tell me where Dean is, and I’ll get the hell out?”

The door opened behind Bobby. It was so silent, Sam could hear the creak of old wood as Dean stepped out, squaring himself against Dad’s gaze.

“Right here, Dad.”

It didn’t matter that Bobby turned to Dean and shot him a look of pure annoyance, or that Sam felt Dad go still beside him, or that Sam still ached from the bruises on the Banshee hunt.

He felt so _selfish_ for believing Dean’s lie for so long.

Everything about him screamed _exhausted._ The hollow circles under his half-lidded eyes, a dead gaze that said _I’m done._ He looked like he’d lost weight the way his clothes just hung off him.

In such a short space of time, he was almost unrecognisable, not even comparable to the brother he knew, the one he’d only hugged a few days before they’d left for Orlando, his ribs shaking with laughter.

He sure as hell didn’t look like someone who’d been on a rough night. He looked like someone who’d given up on everything they had ever believed in.

“Dean, what _happened_?” Sam asked before he registered his mouth was moving, taking a step toward his brother, hardly believing it was him.

The smile Dean gave him wasn’t convincing in any way. It just made Sam’s worry escalate, taking over his brain and coming up with all kinds of nasty explanations Sam just wasn’t ready to deal with.

“I took a little road trip, Sammy. Nothing life-threatening,” he drawled his voice somewhat croakily. Sam was already shaking his head.

“Bullshit, Dean. What really happened?”

Dean’s gaze darkened, and for the first time Sam could remember, he turned away from him.

He was vaguely aware of Dad demanding something, but he couldn’t care less. He couldn’t understand why Dean wouldn’t tell him what was wrong, something that shocked him to the core.

Dean had _always_ looked out for him – so why wouldn’t he let Sam do the same for him?

                He felt hurt that Dean wouldn’t trust him. They were family, blood, and if he couldn’t be trusted by his own brother – he didn’t know what he was good for.

**  
**


	20. On this dead-end, tear-soaked road

The cool night air bit into Dean’s skin, a sensation he was grateful for. It cooled his clammy skin and made him calmer than he believed he could be. He’d screwed up, and it was grating on him. He was sitting on the hood of the impala, the metal still and stubbornly warm as if his baby was trying to shield him from his own damn head.

He was glad to get away from the bunker, to just drive and pull over on a random, deserted back road no one used. The silence was calming, empty of concern and hurt.

The hairs on his neck stood on end.  

“Trouble in paradise? I could smell your pity party from downstairs,” he heard a voice purr. A second later Crowley strode into his view, smiling slightly, hands in his pockets.

“What’s it to you? Heard you don’t like it down there anymore,” Dean grunted. The usual instinct to leap at the bastard didn’t come; Crowley just didn’t seem like that much of a threat anymore. He had no desire to reach for the gun in his jeans, the knife in his jacket.

Later he would convince himself that if anything else supernatural had crossed his path, he wouldn’t have lifted a finger.

“It lacks a certain…finesse, but it’s still where I belong, is it not?” Crowley raised his head, seeming to peer at Dean closely. “You haven’t tried to tear my throat out, yet? Am I not close enough for you to get off your pimp ride?”

Dean eyed him warily, unsure what Crowley was up to. “What are you doing here?”

Crowley rocked back on his heels and seemed to battle with himself, and finally sighed, defeated. “Something’s…been bothering me,” he started.

Dean rolled his eyes. “I don’t care,” he groaned. He didn’t have the stomach for this.

“You’ll want to hear this,” Crowley gave him a torn look. “I _was_ going to hold it over you, watch you squirm in a… soul-destroying path of sweet self-destruction. Alas, it would not improve the stench of your wallowing.”

Dean shook his head. “Cut the crap already.”

Again, Crowley seemed to be struggling, his expression a snarl.  “Back in the fat days before your beloved Moose decided to _ruin_ me, I looked for a little…investment while all those… precious seals were being…popped.”

“I’m not here for frigging story-time, Crowley,” Dean growled, sure he wasn’t going to like the outcome of the conversation. His stomach had already filled with dread.   

Crowley fixed him with a scathing gaze, biting back a retort. Half closing his eyes in clear frustration, he muttered something that sounded like Enochian. “Don’t interrupt me, Dean,” he pointed, his face slightly twisted. “I’m not going to repeat this.”

Dean breathed heavily but said nothing. Crowley was dragging the conversation – a conversation they should in all rights, never have. It was painful.

“On the grapevine, your name came up, over and over.”

_Tell me something I don’t know._

“So I did a little digging, when I wasn’t so… _cuddly._ I found something _interesting_. A little tale about a caved in bar…”

Dean’s blood went cold.

“If you’re going to -“

“Shut up and listen, meat head,” Crowley hissed, sounding more like himself. “One tiny soul. I made it a deal, well the thing was…so _bored_ to death hanging around – just watching a snot-nosed kid angst himself all _over_ the place…”

Dean was frozen in horror.

“Fifteen years up here,” Crowley gestured to the immediate space around them. “Is a _long_ time on the rack, down there,” Crowley pointed downwards with a grin that didn’t look like he was enjoying telling Dean. As if something else was driving him to explain, instead of the usual pleasure of Dean’s horror.

“Did you ever wonder why you carried the guilt of torturing those puny little insects in Hell for so long? You don’t feel _that_ terrible over a few bad eggs, no matter what they screamed. Was it not painfully obvious? Even down there, did she not _seem_ familiar?” Crowley asked, his tone laced with disbelief.

He didn’t know how long it took him to realise his face was wet. “What…did you do to her?”

Crowley laughed briefly. “ _I_ didn’t lay a finger, I just pulled her out of the stagnant _boredom_ you had her in. You, _you_ on the other hand…you knew how to leave your mark. Poetic, is it not? When you…you were the one who burned her humanity away.”

“What…what was the deal?” He didn’t know why he was asking and not ripping Crowley’s head off with his bare hands. Through the crushing pain and guilt, he didn’t know anything anymore.

“She wouldn’t have to pretend you were ignoring her while she could do nothing but follow her love-sick puppy around all day. I’d make her into one of us, and for that, the rack simply _sung_ for her name. In time, she'd be able to do anything she liked, go wherever she liked, not tied to you. It was perfect,” Crowley sighed, wistfully. “I wish I could savour _…_ the look…on your face,” he murmured.

Dean stood, advancing very slowly towards the demon, his blood on fire, the confusing twisted mess of hurt and guilt spurring him on.

“One would expect you to be angry, Dean. Don’t fight it,” Crowley was unperturbed, merely following the movements Dean made, not backing away.

 


	21. Take me back there and hope not to care

**1998**

“Sit down, Sam,” Bobby gestured to the rickety chair as he hovered by the mountains of books on the desk. He sighed heavily.

Sam didn’t know what to think, instantly complying. He was still surprised Dad had just _turned away_ and got back in the truck. The only word that came from him was the tires spewing up dust as he pulled away, leaving them. 

It had been so sudden Sam didn’t see his father’s face, what his expression must have been like when he saw Dean. It made Sam's blood hot with anger. The man couldn't face his own son when he needed him most, and that made him no father.

It felt like betrayal. He was sure Dean felt the same.

In response, Dean had stalked away. He was sure he was somewhere in the yard, taking his frustration out on some piece of junk Bobby hadn’t fixed up. He didn’t know why Dean still idolised Dad like he was some kind of hero.

It had obviously taken Dean every last bit of guts he had to walk out in the open, his appearance casting the lie dead out of the water. To walk out not knowing how Dad would react.

“What’s wrong with Dean, Bobby?” Even to him, his voice sounded small and stupid. He wished he was stronger, there for his brother when his brother needed him.

Bobby shook his head, making Sam’s stomach sink. “There’s something you need to understand, something that your hot-headed bastard of a father won’t get.” He paused.

“What?” He watched Bobby roll a beer across the table. Confused, Sam just looked at it, then at Bobby. “Really?”

Bobby looked sheepish. “You might want it. You remember where your brother was?”

“Yeah, Indiana.” Sam shrugs, unsure what Bobby’s trying to say.

“Well, since he wouldn’t tell me…I looked it up. Turns out a bar caved in, no prizes for guessing who was in it.”

Sam’s heart started beating rapidly. “Shit,” he breathed. _Dean…_

“Sure the survivor’s guilt is making the kid’s head a mess just fine,” Bobby continued, his expression grim. Sam knew he was empathising the way Dad couldn’t.

Dad couldn’t get close enough to his own emotions for that. He couldn’t just tear himself away from Mom’s death for that.

“But he’s dealt with that before. It’ll stay with him, but it’s not something new. That place collapsed. It wasn’t even a monster, not something he was looking for. Seemed like he wanted to get away and the bastard of bad luck bit him in the ass for it.“


	22. You know what I'm trying to tell you

“So? Are you not going to defend the lost love you had with your little ghost? Go on, Dean…I dare you.”

He was so close to the bastard he could smell the horrible combination of whiskey and sulphur rolling off him. He wanted to back off so the smell wouldn’t continue to burn his nose, but the fury kept him rooted to the spot. It whispered the many possible things he could do to Crowley, each one more violent and sounding more suitable than the last.

Before he knew it, Ruby’s knife was against the demon’s throat. Crowley’s eyes glinted.

“ _Before_ I rip you piece by piece and feed your face to those hellhounds of yours, I wanna know _why.”_

The demon’s eyebrows rose incredulously. “Why?” He repeated. “I dragged your squeeze to hell and watched you torture her into a demon. I watched you _enjoy_ it. You’re asking me, a _demon,_ the KING OF HELL, why?” He scoffed.

Dean didn’t answer. He waited, knowing Crowley would get there eventually.

“Did I not make myself clear enough for you? No? Let me give you a little incentive,” he hissed. “I _made sure_ she’d fall to your rack. Absolutely. Bloody. Positive. _Is that_ _really not enough for you?”_ He held his hands out in disbelief.

Dean didn’t understand what he was playing at.

“I made her kill her little sister, just FYI. To prove to me she no longer cared.” When Dean didn’t react, his mouth twisted. “I showed her how to take over a body and _really_ be a demon. Trap the sap inside and leave ‘em conscious. You should see her face – her _real_ one. Quite beautiful really, especially when I made her kill puppies. The cuddly kind with eyes like – like dinner plates.”

Dean didn’t even move. The feeling that something was off was slowly overriding his rage.

“I bankrupted the brand that makes your favourite beer and slaughtered the production company. Also I thought you should know, I had my own little company buy out every single pastry company in America. It was fun to lace it with that grey…goop. _You can’t eat pie anymore._ ”

Dean rolled his eyes. The _lengths –_

_Pie?_

“You’ve never had a death wish before. Why now?” Dean growled.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh for the love of – can you not take a hint or are you really that bloody stupid?” He snapped. “I’m conflicted! Okay? I WANT TO WATCH THE WHOLE BLOODY WORLD BURN LIKE IT SHOULD!” He bellowed.

Dean shook his head. “And?”

“AND I CAN’T!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crowley is just too much fun to write.  
> (I have nothing against puppies, tortured trapped souls, Dean's favourite beer or pie)  
> Well, I don't like pie.


	23. Realisation is always the one with teeth

If Dean wasn’t mistaken, Crowley’s eyes were glinting with tears instead of malice. “So what you’re saying is-“He started, completely taken aback. It hadn’t occurred to him Crowley would have been affected when the cure hadn’t been completed.

“You know what I’m saying, you inept fool. Utterly, completely, inept. You know that? ”

“Tell me why your little _scheme_ was bothering you,” Dean snapped.

Crowley’s eyebrows pulled downwards. “So you’re really not going to.”

“This whole thing stinks,” he lowered the knife. “I _should_ kill you.”

“Then why don’t you?”

Dean didn’t understand why his instincts were telling him not to, it wasn’t like he hadn’t tried to kill Crowley before. He’d killed plenty of monsters that had pleaded for their lives, but…this was different.  He stepped backwards to the warmth of the impala’s cooling engine.

When he didn’t answer, Crowley sighed, a hiss of frustration that sent a stronger stench of sulphur Dean’s way. Dean recoiled and Crowley fixed him with a hateful gaze, looking more like himself.

“Irritatingly, I don’t have the _malice_ to keep my arse a step ahead, having _every_ demon by the soul like the fat days. If this carries on, I’ll be puppy chow. Specifically, _Abbadon’s_ bitch. Can you see _why_ such a thing has every damn bastard that supports her just waiting to tear me to pieces? Can you GET IT INTO YOUR SKULL WHY THAT COULD POSSIBLY BE A PROBLEM?”

“Besides that being your ass?” Dean growled, wishing the demon wouldn’t keep switching from conflicted and confused to angry and vengeful.

“Oh for the love of - This is a war on your horizon, Dean. You should be frigging concerned! If that whore you let loose grabs my crown, the first thing she’s gunna do is slaughter every single of those dewinged idiots. You know who she’ll start with?” He paused as if for dramatic effect. “She’ll start with Cas, and it’ll go on and _on_ until there’s none left. Seems like a pity,”

Dean swore, leaning back against the impala, mind racing. “You better not lose, Crowley. How the hell are you going to stop her? She can’t die, dumbass!” He stopped short as a thought occurred to him. “You are _not_ going to hand me the colt again are you? Because that just _floored_ Lucifer _.”_

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Even if I knew where it was – you know it doesn’t work on the bitch. The only way to wipe out a demon-”

“I know how to kill a demon, Crowley. I’m thinking about it right now.”

“ _From_ Lucifer’s pretty little collection is with a stronger demon. Otherwise the little bastard will just keep crawling out the gate.”

Dean shook his head. “And where do you plan on finding that?”

 “I’ve spent too long chatting here with you. Some bastard downstairs knows, and I don’t have time to find out. Start by summoning that demon you so cutely and obscenely smashed across the face. Given persuasion, she’ll point you to the right fire of hell.”

“Just – Crowley. Watch your back,” the words had come out of his mouth before he knew what he was doing.

“Please, I tore your little ghost girlfriend away from you and you didn’t even _notice ._ I’m not taking survival tips from _you.”_

He was gone.

The truth about Olivia – _finally –_ crashed down on him in the silence. After years of waiting to see her, and then _fearing_ her return –

He slid down the hood, reduced to his knees, a hand covering his mouth. He didn’t have time to waste, but he couldn’t stop himself. He knew this time it _was_ going to end bloody. It was going to be sad.

Even when it ended, it didn’t. All the things he’d put Olivia through – just for a few hours of escapism.

Everything was going to shit just like he knew it would.


	24. Make up your mind to stay conscious

Cas lifted his head, unsure of how he’d come to be sprawled on stone stairs. The wail of a gramophone winded through curves in the unfamiliar corridor, disturbing the stillness of the air. He touched the back of his head and groaned. The familiar unwillingness of his own limbs to move told him he’d been there for a substantial amount of time. Still feeling the back of his head, he sat up.

“Cas? Hey. Whoa. What are you doing on the floor, dude?” Hands pulled him upwards to meet a concerned gaze.

Cas sighed. “My body is unused to needing sleep. I uh, must have passed out or something. I’m not sure.”

Sam led him back to the main room of the bunker, a hand hovering annoyingly behind Cas’s back. It must have been what Sam would have considered a precaution.

“Just pick a room, Cas. Go get some sleep. We can’t have you passing out all over the place.”

“Dean’s will be adequate,” Cas muttered, noticing the raised eyebrows.

“Hey, uh Cas? I don’t wanna pry, but aren’t you being a little clingy? Dean’s already over the edge as it is,” Sam stuck his hands in his jeans rather awkwardly.

Cas gave him a dark look, exasperation and anger rising to his defence again. “What would you know about being over the edge, when it isn’t of your own volition?” He saw Sam’s shock, his anger, and immediately regretted it. There was something irritating about being – well – as close to a human as an angel could get. Something that let emotions run unbridled, uncontrolled.

“I _have_ to stay with him, Sam. There’s something wrong. I feel like I can still watch over him, or he’s looking out for me, it’s something I can’t explain but it is solace in this sick, aching earth.”

  Sam seemed to absorb this for a minute. To Cas’s relief, he accepted it. “Didn’t you unpack? You’re with us now.” _This is your home now_ , Sam seemed incapable of muttering.

“Unpacking usually requires possessions, Sam. All I have is a memory that spans centuries and a name that doesn’t mean anything anymore. I have lost my true form, I have lost all I had.”

The tires on the Impala whined distantly. He’d know the sound anywhere.

 “Not everything,” Sam said, watching Cas’s expression change. He sat down at the table, opening a dusty book.

Instead of waiting, Cas hurriedly ducked in the first corridor he came to, and wound up in Dean’s room again. He sighed, and sank onto the mattress.

The exhaustion enveloped him again.


	25. And this is why

Dean sighed, ringing a hand through his hair.

“Hi Sammy,” Dean muttered distractedly as he went past, hoping Sam wouldn’t look up from the damn book. “Tired.”

To his relief, Sam gave a grunt in response, allowing Dean to just _leave_. He needed the space.

\---

 It was a long time before Dean realised there was someone else sitting with him on his bed. He felt the mattress dip as they moved, but there wasn’t any way in hell his face was leaving his hands. _Just breathe. Just, just breathe. Just let me think for a minute._

_We’re going to get out of this. Just let me…just let me think for a minute, alright?_

His voice, younger. Terrified, less messed up than he was now.

A hand came to his shoulder, making him recoil, shudder in the memories that gripped him. “Dean.” The tone of Cas’s voice was less gravelly than usual. Quieter. It made his words sound so much worse, cutting so much deeper.

 “You’re always so ready for the last stand, to throw yourself into danger and hope there’s a purpose behind it.” Cas said, breathing a heavy sigh, withdrawing his hand.

Dean’s muscles stilled. Gripping the mattress in clawed hands, he searched for an answer, a response that laughed it off, for a protest that Castiel’s words didn’t make sense, for _anything -_

_You don’t- just shut up Cas, just -_

Castiel clearly saw his silence as a sign to continue.  

“I know that every time you do, you hope that you won’t make it out. Why do you believe being disembowelled at the hands of a supernatural creature – ending your life that way is a consolation? A consolation to what? If…you do not realise there is no last stand coming to – to _liberate_ you, then…you’ll be beyond my assistance.”

Dean made himself look up, slowly prying himself from his own grip, until inch by inch, the world swivelled, tilted to revolve around Cas. The concern on his face, overthrowing the exhaustion was almost sickening.

“Make me understand, Dean. Please.”


	26. I can't ever let it go, and it's pushing you out of my soul

Shakily, he stood – inexplicably wanting a vantage point over the former angel. The urgency came rushing back, Crowley’s words imprinted into Dean’s skull.

_You know who’ll she’ll start with?_

He had to tell him – but first…since he’d asked.

It was ironic, really. Castiel’s face was so full of damn concern, of the belief he was doing something _right_ , something for Dean in the hope he could help.

He was just making it worse.

 “You know what? Shove it, Cas.” Dean’s voice was undeniably trembling with emotion. Immediately the confusion flickered onto Castiel’s face. Did he think it wasn’t messed up? When wasn’t it messed up?

“I have been waiting for one because there has never – I mean _never_ been a time in my whole damned life where there wasn’t a freakin’ last stand, man. Lucifer, this whole angel falling crap, _Sam –_

“That ending is the _only_ way I’m ever gunna catch a break, Cas. The life doesn’t make room for breaks. It expects you to _give_ and _give_ until there’s nothing but being tired, man.” Dean’s voice strained again, but he hardly cared. “Nothing but wanting out.” A thought filled him with anger that seemed to slough his skin from his bones.

“You think I’m waiting for a storm that ain’t coming. Don’t tell me, _don’t_ say that because those feathers of yours don’t work anymore – _just_ because you don’t have the juice – _or_ the guts, you think the world’s just gunna stop? You think it’s gunna rock back on its heels and give up on building everything then letting it collapse, just because you dumped your coat in the trunk of my car?” Dean stepped back, wanting more space between them, space _away_ from Castiel’s reasoning.

Castiel’s response rendered him silent. “In a way, _yes,”_ he snapped, shaking his head as if he was disappointed. “I thought – if I stopped trying, maybe you wouldn’t throw yourself at things that want to hurt you. You’ll get the ending you hope for because it’s the only thing you seem to want!”

Dean nodded, sick of the whole damn thing. “Maybe it is. _Maybe_ I’m tired of looking after you, picking you up every time you forget to frigging eat or sleep, waiting to see if you’ll _adjust._ Sick and tired of waiting for Sam to drop dead because it seems to be what he does! The fight’s never gunna end, Cas. It’s just the way it is.”

Ignoring the jibes, Cas squinted at him. “What aren’t you telling me?”

Dean looked away from the former angel’s intense gaze. “Shit’s hit the fan, Cas. We have to go.”


	27. Just for a second, pretend

Sam scoffed. “You’re basing this on what _Crowley_ told you? Dean…this is all very…sudden.”

Dean grabbed his gun off the table, hating Sam’s tone. Did his little brother not trust him anymore, just because he refused to tell him what was on his mind every second of every day?

“Did you forget the Jedi mind trick you pulled on him?”

Strong hands grabbed him, forcing Dean to face Sam’s expression of bewilderment. “Will you just – _hang on_ , a second, okay? Just, stop Dean, just for a sec. Please. Listen. Okay?”

Dean looked at his brother expectantly, unable to do anything else, feeling his heart pound uncomfortably being so still when the panic was still in his veins.

“Say Crowley is right, which I’m not saying that he is. You think leaving this place is going to help? Dean this place is a _fortress!”_

Dean scowled. “So, what? We just sit here?” Even as he voiced the protest, a thought ate into its defence. _The demon that got away knows one that’ll kill Abbadon._

Sam hurried to the table, eager to put a dent in Dean’s determination to leave, and Dean wasn’t sure why. Sure, his brother liked the whole Men Of Letters thing, but…not _that_ much. Sam slid the book across the table with a somewhat hopeful look in his eyes.

Dean took one look at the yellowed pages and rolled his eyes. “I’m not exactly _fluent_ in Latin, genius.”

“This was one of the records the Men of Letters kept. Dean, this place’s foundations have hex bags sealed inside. Every beam is soaked in salt and holy water, every _nail_ has a warding symbol on it! Abbadon can’t even find the place.”

“What about Cas? There was never anything stopping him from zapping here. Warding wise,” he felt the need to add, and immediately regretted it.

Sam shrugged. “They never warded against angels. Optimists, apparently. Maybe they believed that if they ever encountered one it would be for a good reason. And it’s not like they pose a threat anymore. Sorry Cas.”

Cas shook his head. The look on his face was nothing compared to his expression at Dean’s comment. A look of betrayal on a level he’d never seen, except for on his own face.

“Seeing as we _are_ gunna sit here and just wait for the hell bitch to knock down every door in existence until she gets to us, might as well look for a stronger demon to summon here.”

“You want to do _what?”_


	28. Run and know bad luck follows

Dean looked up from the book with annoyance. No matter how he tried, the Latin just seemed to escape any meaning. He made to hand the book to Sam. He stopped, noticing Castiel’s uneasiness.  The angel was hovering on the threshold of the “dungeon,” as Dean referred to it.

He was unable to stay still, the look in his eye tortured. He was wringing his hands when he wasn’t tearing one through his hair. He still looked strange in normal clothes, more like a civilian than an angel. He looked frightened.

With a mumbled excuse no living creature could hope to hear, Cas tore out of the room.

After a moment of staring at the place he’d been, Dean followed, leaving the door to swing and screech on its hinges. He was surprised at how fast the angel could move.

“Cas! Cas, wait!” Dean called. Before he knew it, he’d sidestepped in front of Cas, almost crashing into him, but effectively stopping him.  Hands gripped Cas’s shoulders, trying to ground him and tear him from his fear.

“What?”

He blinked, surprised at the hostility in Cas’s tone. “Where are you going, man?”

Cas shook his head, clearly aware of the confusion in Dean’s voice. “I can’t stand there, Dean. Don’t _make_ me stand there and watch you torture the demon that sank the demon-killing knife into you, Dean. I can’t.” The words were so fast coming out of Cas’s mouth they were difficult to understand.

Dean’s eyebrows furrowed. Castiel was and always had been a soldier of heaven, Team Free Will. Hell, he’d seen worse things than what he was suggesting he couldn’t, so what was so bad this time?

“I can’t go in there, Dean. That room is awash with agony and the malice of those that were bound there. I can feel it,” his tone sang of desperation and fear.

“What are you on about?”

“I can’t, Dean. Don’t make me go back in there, please. Dean, please,” the expression on Cas’s face crumpled.

Dean’s heart started to hammer. Something was very, very wrong. Sam needed him for this, and they couldn’t afford to put it off any longer.

The only thing he could do was let Castiel go, out of earshot of the place.

He had an idea where he’d be, and once it was over he’d get the truth out of him.

\---

 

Dean watched Sam retreat from the newly repainted Devil’s Trap with annoyance as his brother hesitated, a book in his hand.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” He finally said.

Dean found he was missing Cas’s presence.

“A run of the mill demon got your sideburns shivering, Sam?” Dean replied, sick of Sam’s lack of faith in him. Ever since he’d mentioned Crowley’s plan his brother had made a point of sending unsure, tortured looks at Dean, accompanied with a stony silence.

Dean was at the end of his bullshit tolerance. He swallowed the sarcasm and the jibes, just hoping Sam would get on with it.

“I don’t think this is a good idea,” Sam muttered, looking younger in his uncertainty, the way his lip wavered slightly, stubbornly.  

He half-expected Sam to bottle it, to throw the book in a corner, but he dutifully recited the Latin, throwing the match in the bowl.

The roar of sound came first, like that of a flamethrower, tied in with a low hissing. Dean stood back, reaffirming his grip on Ruby’s knife.

Once the smoke had cleared, the demon stood in the trap, pulling on the iron collar that had been leaning innocently against the wall.

Dean blinked. _Well that’s a new one._

He felt slightly sick as he looked at her, remembering how she’d sank the knife into him, grinning.

She matched his disgusted stare with a hateful one.

The slice in her face had healed horribly, twisting her features, resembling more of the true face underneath. The puckered, red skin reminded him of his days in hell, and his stomach churned.

“This is the demon?” Sam asked quietly, stepping backwards to let Dean get closer to the trap.

Dean nodded.

“You summoned me here to sic your little brother on me? Really?” The laughter bounced off the walls and echoed, a chorus of hell.

“I’d tell you to shut your fugly face, but uh, we need to have a chat, and you know how this works.”

The demon fixed him with a delighted gaze under the sheet of black hair, and grinned.

“Now you’re speaking my language. Where’s that frightened pet blackbird of yours?”


	29. Falter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a dark one.

“You know, the one that couldn’t blast holes in my friends?” She elaborated when Dean didn’t answer. He felt Sam shift next to him.

“He didn’t need to. Your friends are dead,” Dean replied, advancing on her and brandishing the knife.

“Oh spare me the macho speech, will you? If you’re going to _ask_ something, then ask it, yes?” The demon rolled its black eyes as if it wasn’t worried, though it strained against the iron holding it.

“Word on the grapevine is there’s a demon stronger than Abbadon, and you know where it is.”

The demon grew confused. “Abbadon? What are you poking around that circle of hell for? You’re just a grunt and she’s _way_ past your pay grade, punk.”

Dean’s eyebrows rose at the insult.

The knife sank into her hand as it clawed at the collar. She screamed, and Dean snatched it away from the metal as it tried to glance off the ridged surface etched with runes.

“Well?”

“You think I’m gunna burn for a piece of shit like you?” She laughed again, and this time it was tinged with the bitter edge of pain.

“Oh you’re going to burn. You can be sure of _that_ ,” Dean murmured, feeling something stir in his head.

\---

Dean walked out the room, closing it carefully as soon as Sam had followed.

He immediately didn’t like the expression on Sam’s face.

“Alright, what is it Sam?” Dean sighed, wiping the knife clean with a rag, feeling Sam’s eyes watching every movement, somewhat nervously. Dean _needed_ to get back in there, to get a name – to get _something_ they could use.

“Dean,” Sam swallowed. “What are you doing?”

Dean shook his head, not understanding what was wrong. “We need the info, Sam. What’s the big deal? It’s not like we haven’t done this before, man.”

Sam’s face drained of colour. He seemed to struggle to keep his eyes on Dean.

“Sam?” he demanded.

“Still recovering from the trials, I’m fine. Why don’t you take a break? It’s not like she’s going anywhere. Find Cas.”

“We need the info, Sam,” Dean protested. It was too important to stop, now. Abbadon needed bringing down. Sam squeezed his shoulder in what seemed like an empty gesture.

“I know. Don’t you think…you’re pushing this?” Sam asked, hesitating.

 “All I’m going to do is finish it, okay? Why don’t you take a nap, Sam? You don’t look too good.”

He shut the door, cutting off Sam’s protest.

“Your little bro’s worried about you. Slipping back to your old ways, and all that,” the demon purred. The only thing holding her vessel up now was the collar around her neck. Her skin was dyed with blood, glistening sickly in the dim room. Her neck muscles strained against the collar as she swallowed.

“Have you decided?”

“I have to say, Winchester. You _really_ live up to the rumours downstairs. Demanding _and_ sexy,” her head gestured to the gashes marring her skin. “Kind of makes me wish I was in your fire of hell when you picked up the bone saw.”

Eventually, he lost count of her screams, how many times he’d cut into her skin.

“Okay,” she gasped. “Okay. Stop. Please.”

Dean grabbed her face roughly between blood-caked hands. With her soaked skin, he had to dig his nails in to keep his grip. “Well?”

“The best demons aren’t born. They’re engineered. There’s talk of one. Just one that can get rid of Lucifer’s knights. An innocent soul tortured by a righteous man.”

He felt his face freeze, hearing her laugh again. Numbly, he saw a flash of orange light, watching her pleading gaze turn to a dead one.

It was only when the demon burned as it died; the room was lit up enough to reveal Castiel's terror, reflecting the light in glistening blood. The scorched shadows of wings stretching outwards, upwards on the walls as if trying to escape them.


	30. Taste betrayal and bite back

Dean couldn’t get the image of shadowy wings scorched into the walls bathed in the orange light of hellfire out of his head. He couldn’t drive the memories of hell out, either, surfaced from interrogating the demon.  The knife clattered to the concrete as he staggered out of the room, slamming the door.

He thought he could smell the sulphur, the stench of burning flesh in air laden with ash that attacked every breath he took. The floor seemed to waver under his feet, becoming unpredictable and unfamiliar, making the way back to his room a hazy stagger.

The nausea rolled up to claim him as he just managed to lean against his doorframe, his temperature rocketing. With a determined blink, he pushed the memory down enough to be able to concentrate on the room.

He found Cas waiting for him, standing with his arms crossed. Dean was surprised, but glad he’d recovered from his…terror.

“Did you get what you wanted?” Cas asked. He looked as if he was controlling a deep, rooted anger.

Dean was sick of not understanding. “Yeah, I got what we needed,” he replied when he’d caught his breath.

The angel’s face was grim. He leaned away from Dean’s direction. “You smell like them.”

Dean’s mouth went dry. “Who’s them?”

 “You _reek_ of the rack I pulled you from.”

There wasn’t anything he could say to that. Cas’s face was full of contempt.

“I hoped perdition wouldn’t claim you again. After _everything_ we have been through, everything we’ve suffered, I hoped that part of you wouldn’t resurface,” Cas spat.

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” Dean was furious. The memory of hell was better off a memory, and he loathed Cas for bringing it up. Wasn't it best left buried?

“I shouldn’t have left you in there. Such a…extended interrogation, after you’ve been _enduring_ for so long was bound to stir it. I couldn’t stay in that room when it bore the mark of my brothers, my sisters. I couldn’t stay to protect you from it. I _can’t_ protect you from you, Dean.”

“Well that’s just something else to _torture_ you, ain’t it?” Dean didn’t know where the words were coming from, the anger that burned in his blood, roaring. His skin felt like it was on fire, the sweat that covered it was like a coat of guilt that no longer cared. “Just something else to be an excuse for you. You know what? I don’t care,” he growled.

He revelled in the feeling. It felt, so _free._ There was no pressure to save the world, save ungrateful people that would carry on in their meaningless, hyprocritical existences.

There was anger that fuelled a new energy, to do whatever the hell he wanted.

An outlet. A way of expelling the bad luck that had always plagued him. Every damn thing that had ever gone wrong in his life could be passed on to someone else.

He didn't have to deal with it anymore.

Instinct told him to rip Cas apart, piece by piece for the annoying sounds he made. For talking. For thinking he knew _everything_.

Hurt flashed across Cas’s face. “You don’t know what you’re saying, Dean. The memory of hell is influencing you in ways you can’t imagine. If you don’t find a way to shake it off, you’ll become like _them_.”

For a second, he saw a flash of white glinting in Cas’s eyes, coupled with fear. Was there a time when Cas wasn’t afraid? 

_He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He’s God’s toy soldier, broken and discarded._

“You’re just talking shit because I hurt you. You never believed me when I said there was a new reckoning, did you?” The taste of betrayal was bitter on Dean’s tongue, tainting his words.

 “Every time you believed there was, I came to your rescue. I pulled you out. I saved everything you couldn’t live without. This is how you repay me, hunter?” Such a description for Dean was alienating coming from Castiel. He’d always been so familiar, so much of a right hand …man Dean had never considered him anything else. It stung.

 “My wings no longer work, Dean. I can’t pull you out of your own head. Perhaps, you are too damaged to be repaired this time. Maybe,” he hesitated, his expression agonised as he tried to censor his own, brutal honesty.

“Go on, what?” Dean snapped, his voice like a whip. A pause.

The silence slowed down the conversation, until the only thing worth focusing on was Cas, and the frightened look in his eye.

“There is no path for you to carry on, Dean. No road for you to take. It disappeared the second you picked up that knife. Now, the only way you may have available to you, is hell.”

“You’re going to give up on me _that easily?_ You never trusted me, did you? _”_

“Dean…when I laid a hand on you in hell, my garrison lay before me. Heaven’s soldiers _littered_ across the hellfire.  They followed me blindly, and I was responsible. Their wings lay torn apart from their vulnerable bodies. They were still alive, writhing in agony.”

Castiel’s tone was matter of fact, avoiding Dean’s general direction, as if his mere presence repelled his dull, angelic senses.

“Any sound they may have made was stolen from them. The many faces each angel had had been torn clean off. Through the shock of seeing my comrades so broken, it was then I realised. There were no demons in the flames. It had only been you in there. _Only you_.”

Slowly, Castiel lifted his grave eyes to Dean.

“And you wish to know why I don’t trust the Dean standing in front of me?”


	31. Notice the snarl underneath the grin, don't trust me

Sam woke with a start, his neck screaming in protest when he lifted his head. Groggily, his fingers traced the imprint of the book on his cheek. For a blissful minute, he didn’t remember. When full wakefulness hit him, he recalled the dark look in his older brother’s eyes, skin splattered with demon blood. It made him shiver. Was that a shadow of what Dean had looked like as the one who’d brought on the apocalypse?

Sam had never really paid much thought to Dean’s time in hell. He didn’t want to think about it, and it had been a _long_ time since Dean was downstairs. They’d been through a _lot_ of crap after it. What if it had resurfaced?  Could something…so altering, so game changing, be fixed?

Sam had a feeling they’d barely skimmed the surface of the damn thing.

Something buzzed next to his hand, pulling him from his own thoughts.

_So that’s what woke me._

A glance at the screen made his stomach drop through the floor.

_“666.”_

The screen seemed to glare hatefully at him as he read the text. “ _I thought we were pals, Moose.”_

Confused, Sam put down the phone only for it to immediately vibrate again. Crowley had a knack for timing.

“ _Really, I did.”_

He set down the phone again, deliberating whether it was worth it to go and tell Dean. Probably not, considering Crowley was practically fluffy now. Dean would just be pissed, probably still covered in blood

_“I’m hurt you haven’t even purchased the box set of The Pacific.”_

Sam’s fingers flew clumsily over the keypad. “ _What do you want?”_

_“Besides your quite sexy, shiny long hair, you mean?”_

The phone buzzed for a last time. Coordinates.

\---

“Why the hell didn’t Crowley just call you? You dragged us out the fortress for _this?_ ” Dean grumbled, shoving his hands in his pockets. Sam had to use longer strides to keep up with his brother’s short, brisk and angry walk.

The back road was deserted. The headlights of the impala revealed a clear flat plane of cracked concrete, nothing to see for miles.

Cas hovered awkwardly behind them, as unsure as Dean, though more tolerant. He hadn’t acknowledged Dean once. It rose the hair on the back of Sam’s neck.

“I don’t believe we should be out here when Abbadon is searching for us,” was all he said.

“Well, if Crowley’s risking his ass to talk to us, he’s gotta have something to say, right?” Sam protested half-heartedly.

“Damn right,” Sam stopped short, almost crashing into the demon. He’d suddenly occupied the exact place Sam was about to put his foot.

Crowley looked at his dirt crusted shoes with disdain.

The demon’s words were drowned out by a low growling.

“Hello, boys,” Crowley grinned at their horrified faces.


	32. The horror ain't just in your face, darling

“Oh _don’t_ look so betrayed,” Crowley scolded, frowning as if he didn’t understand.

“What the hell are you doing, Crowley?” Sam snapped, not having to look to know Dean was fumbling for Ruby’s knife. Hellish Dean or not, the demon needed distracting. A hellhound was never a good sign.

Crowley shrugged innocently, his face unreadable in the poor light. “It’s like you don’t trust me. I’ve found something, and I couldn’t leave the dog behind. Who _knows_ what the state of my Italian leather sofa would be like when I got back?”

“An abomination of yours is no interest of _ours_ ,” Castiel snarled beside them. His hand was gripping his angel blade tightly, the one thing left to him. It looked odd, for the blade not to be surrounded by a creased tan sleeve. Sam saw that Cas was shivering from the cold, in his casual t-shirt and jeans.

He kicked himself for not remembering to remind Cas to bring something warmer.

It bothered him that Dean hadn’t said anything. He was just a silhouette in the back light of the impala’s headlights, holding himself very still.

“Don’t be getting any ideas, _Cassidy_. I may have conflicting interests, but point that toothpick at my pooch and you _will_ regret it.” Crowley bared his teeth, and the rumbling growl got louder, as if to validate his threat. “I know you can’t see hills with eyes anymore… _but_ that’s no reason to jump the gun, now is it? Put it away.”

Sam felt his eyebrows go up. “If you don’t cut to the chase, Ab-”

“Just setting a few ground rules, Moose, nothing more.” The demon murmured, turning to regard him. “Did you make the pig squeal?”

It took him a minute to realise what Crowley meant. He was reluctant to reply, it would mean admitting there was something wrong with Dean.

Crowley looked wistful. “I wish I could enjoy the _irony,_ I really do. Anyway,” he sighed, looking slightly surprised, as if he hadn’t meant to admit it.

“Time to get this show on the road,” the demon frowned, stopping short, yet again. “Why does it seem like you booked your brother a one way back downstairs?”

“What do you mean?” Sam bit back immediately, frustrated Dean still wasn’t saying anything.

Crowley slowly moved towards them, peering at Dean. Sam turned to look at his brother, taking a step toward him to see him better.

Dean’s expression was carefully blank.

                “It wasn’t a surprise when that bottom feeder didn’t show its ugly mug downstairs, but…” Crowley sniffed. “You have an air of _bloody_ _satisfaction_ surrounding you. The kind that clung to Alastair, when he knew he’d broken in fresh meat. When he made them _choose_ to get off the rack.”

“What do you mean?” Sam repeated, more insistently. He felt sick.

“Old habits, blah blah blah. I’d be delighted if it were useful. Will you stop asking questions, Moose? I’m not a bloody politician.” Crowley didn’t look at him.

“What did you call us for?” Cas growled before Sam could say anything.

Crowley’s words swam round Sam’s head. He’d _known_ something was wrong, the second he summoned the demon in the bowels of the bunker.

“So, who’s the contender for round two of Armageddon?”

 “The girl you made into insurance,” Dean’s voice was so quiet it would have been hard to believe he’d said anything, if Sam hadn’t seen his lips move.

“Dean? What’s going on? Why won’t you look at me?” Sam demanded, fear seeping into his gut.

A pause. Dean gave no sign he’d even heard his brother.

“Interesting the way things play out, isn’t it? Something about her was different…” Crowley drawled, and Sam stilled as he heard the growling again.

“ _Dean!”_ Sam snapped.

 “What are you…?” Cas trailed off, squinting at the space behind the demon.

Slowly, Sam followed Castiel’s gaze where it fell on the billowing grey smoke of a demon.

Sam stiffened. It couldn’t possess him or Dean, but Cas on the other hand…

He didn’t think he would have it in him to punch the former angel. The mere thought of it was wrong, like setting a butterfly’s wings on fire.

Cas staggered backwards with horror, he’d clearly had the same thought.

At once the smoke started rolling its way towards him, until –

“That’s not helpful,” Crowley said. “What did I tell you about timing?”

At first the shape of the smoke was vaguely rectangular, towering behind Crowley. Sam watched as it shrank downwards, becoming thinner.

                “…Dean?” Sam repeated, unable to say anything else.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updates are going to be less frequent :c


	33. Protect me from my demons, the ones you don't know about

Dean watched with horror as the smoke curled and changed colour, transforming into a person. His brain shorted out. No demon was able to do any of that. It wasn’t possible.

 _Impossible_ , his mind screamed.

 For a second, he could pretend she wasn’t wearing someone. It made him no more than a determined, desperate child trying to keep the monster in the wardrobe when it was no longer his friend. When he’d already let it in.

 It was what she would have looked like, if she’d lived.

Instead, here she was, standing in front of him. A monster. A demon.

“Olivia,” his breath formed around the word before he could stop it.

As he looked at her, watching her come towards his frozen body with unreadable black eyes, he was stalking towards her, fuelled by the screams he wrung from her, his body so hot it was on fire under all the blood it was covered in.  A cruel twisted knife felt part of his arm, the handle barbed, biting into his flesh. The barbed wire wrapped around the handle was wound up to his shoulder. It was impossible to tell which pool of blood coating his skin was his and which was hers. His nostrils flared as the thick smell of copper and sulphur surrounded him.

Dean was vaguely aware of Sam calling his name, insistently, over and over.

Then Castiel, gripping him. He could feel the horror rolling off him, a potent mix of outrage and a worry so deep it clawed. It sounded like he was swearing in Enochian.

_What have you done to him?_

Dean couldn’t get air into his lungs. When he inhaled, fire licked the insides of his chest. He wheezed, choking. His brain became terrified at Castiel’s horror. What did he mean? Something must have been wrong for anyone to sound so appalled, so worried.

_Can’t…_

_Don’t touch me please no don’t touch me. I’m sorry_

He was aware of his body twisting, trying to suck in air and failing.

_I know I did it I’m so sorry just please stop_

Something was _hissing_ like hellfire that never stopped burning, he shied away from the hands ghosting against his skin.

_Don’t touch me I promise I’ll try harder no please_

He started to shiver, teeth chattering.

_N-no please no_

_Don’t look at me!_

_Make it stop I feel so cold there’s fire in my lungs it’s burning help me_

_Why are your hands burning me my shoulder hurts stop it please_

_Your face what’s wrong with it why is there more than one_

_Demons only have one_

_Help_

 “Dean? Dean? There’s no fire, Dean. I pulled you _out_ , remember? Dean!”

A gasp, and Dean sucked cool air into tired lungs. He blinked, and saw Cas staring down at him, terror slowly leaving his eyes. His back was freezing against the damp concrete. His head throbbed from where he’d crashed to the ground, his body surrendering to the horrible mix of memory and hallucination.  

Castiel’s desperate grip on Dean’s shirt loosened. A hand came to his face in what seemed like relief, before falling away. He seemed incapable of saying anything.

“Dean? Are you okay?” Sam’s voice floated between them.

It took a while before Dean was breathing normally again. He ignored the question.

“This is all very touching, but uh, don’t you think we have other things to do? Say…getting out of here before Abbadon shows up and makes us all into chew toys?”

Cas offered a hand, and hauled Dean upright.

“What was that?” Olivia’s voice was a low hiss, somehow managing to sound curious. She started to walk towards him.

Castiel put a protective hand on Dean’s shoulder, stepping in front of him very slightly.

“You have nerve to address him,” Cas growled. Dean ignored this, too.

“What was that? What the hell are you?” Dean retorted, the raw memory of hell somehow making it easier to face her.

“Oh be quiet, feathers. Dean, I am what you made me,” She said, shaking her head calmly.

When he didn’t answer, she sighed.

“Those memories of hell bowled you over, didn’t they? Yeah, that’s all I see when I look at you, pretty face.  The knife. Once you were a sweet kid trying to run away from Daddy and your messed up existence. I was the girl that was gunna pick up the pieces. Now we’re both monsters, Dean. The sooner you realise that, the better.”


	34. See the panic in my eyes and make it worse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I said less frequent, I wasn't sure when. xD  
> This is a short one

All Sam could see out of the Impala’s windows was darkness.

Nervously, he glanced at Dean in the rear view mirror. From the angle he was sitting at in the backseat, all he could see of Dean in the reflected surface was half a cheek. This didn’t help when he wanted to ask what the hell was going on. Or…why Cas was in the front seat.

There was an uneasy silence that settled over the interior of the Impala. Dean had to know he’d have to ask. _Had_ to.

“Dean?”

Cas made a noise in the passenger seat that sounded exasperated.

“Really, Cas? You’re not curious what happened there? The whole hallucination thing? How about the demon that _doesn’t need a vessel_ andcan turn into a hellhound and back?”

Cas glanced towards Dean, what Sam could see of his expression was worried.

“It wasn’t a mere hallucination, Sam,” the angel finally said.

“Then what was it?”

“It was Hell,” Dean snapped. “Forgive me if I didn’t tell you about that particular time in hell because I didn’t remember it. There was a reason why my brain blocked it out. You of all people should understand that.” _That’s all you need to know,_ his tone said.

Sam winced at the anger in Dean’s voice. Since when had they been so harsh to each other? He felt like he hardly knew Dean anymore. “…So what? You made a super demon by torturing an evil soul while you were down there? Was that what you saw?” The words rushed out of Sam,  unsettled by the whole thing.

The Impala lurched to a stop, making Sam’s head jerk against the grip the seatbelt had on his chest.

Dean punched the steering wheel. In the shocked silence that followed, Sam watched uneasily as his brother got out and stalked away.

“Well Sam, I think you found what Dean wasn’t telling you,” Cas rumbled, getting out.

Sam made to follow, but Cas held up a hand that said _stay here._


	35. You spiralled downward and condemned the wings on your back for the knives in your skin

Castiel approached Dean’s figure warily when the hunter halted, a safe distance away from the Impala and his brother’s questions.

The angel was unsure how to react – pushing Dean like Sam did seemed unthinkable when Dean was so…fractured with the last memory of hell returned to him. He was unsure how this had not occurred to Sam.

The frigid air attacked Castiel’s skin, drawing shivers. He didn’t know how to stop them.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, emitting a shaky breath that fogged around his face.

 “I don’t think Sam meant those words, Dean,” Cas said around chattering teeth, wondering if Dean would ever get round to explaining to Sam. He hoped he wouldn’t leave his younger sibling to keep dishing out the snide comments in the hopes of Dean being frustrated enough to just say it.

 Cas knew pieces of it – the moment he’d seen the hunter in hell he’d _just_ burned the last of the girl’s humanity away as Cas had crouched there, shaken, trembling from seeing his original garrison slaughtered.

The horror of seeing them so disfigured, _still alive_ and in so much agony it was clear there was no way to heal them, was awful enough.

What had – impossibly - unsettled him more was the fact that his garrison hadn’t been slaughtered by the abominations in hell, called to defend their newest torturer. It had been only one man, a _righteous_ man. He’d barely had any humanity left in him.

That was all the angel knew, and he didn’t think he wanted to know any more than that.

Dean turned to him, the words finally reaching the hunter. “What words, Cas?” His tone was hoarse, vulnerable.

Cas paled.

For a minute he was unable to form words. “Dean…?”

Dean frowned, and that simple movement filled Cas with terror. “Care to elaborate?”

Hesitating, Cas trudged closer towards Dean. It was then he noticed how Dean couldn’t stay still, even for a second. Dean’s weight shifted constantly. His eyes couldn’t seem to settle on one spot for very long. “What do you remember of the last hour?”

“What? Why are you asking me this, Cas?”

“Dean, please. Just…just answer the question.”

The air fogged around Dean for a brief second as he sighed heavily. “Driving. And then…”

“And then…?” Cas breathed slowly, relief ebbing away some of his fear.

“I pulled over, Cas.” Dean’s frown deepened. He shook his head, and swallowed.

 _You didn’t just pull over, Dean. Do you remember assaulting the steering wheel?_ Cas wanted to say, too afraid of pushing Dean to let the words past his lips.

                “What made you stop the Impala?”  Cas asked. If he didn’t ask now, it was unlikely Dean would be so forthcoming with the truth later.

                Dean folded his arms. The movement seemed to serve as a defence against the question rather than protection against the cold night air.

                “I can’t concentrate, Cas. On…anything. Not you, my brother, much less the damn road. All…all I can see is fire, Cas. I can feel the heat on my skin, after all the years I was out, Cas.”

                “No,” Cas said immediately. “You _are_ out. Since that day I pulled you out, you haven’t been back there once, Dean. I would have…I would have known.”

                “You don’t get it, Cas. It doesn’t matter anymore.”


	36. To remember in red

Dean felt Cas’s worried gaze, and hated the pensive eyed look he gave in return.

“You can’t keep doing this, Dean,” Cas’s voice was strangely calm, and it only made Dean’s stomach twist with guilt.

“Do what, Cas? Feel like shit?”

He hardly cared that Cas bared his teeth in frustration, running a hand through his hair.

“You can’t keep giving up like this! Such a thing will help no one, and I know you understand that. We _have_ to get back to your fortress, Dean. Before Abbadon finds us, before-”

Numbly, Dean could _see_ Cas was talking, but he heard nothing. He shivered as the heat attacked his skin again.

Why couldn’t it just leave him alone? Part of his brain whispered that it wasn’t real, that he was just hallucinating, and that it wasn’t another memory trying to break free from his subconscious. The heat made him breathe faster and harder just to get enough air into his body, air that was too hot for his lungs.

There was no way it wasn’t real.

The world tilted in protest as Castiel grabbed his face and hauled him closer through the flames, disrupting his balance.

He had no idea why the former angel would think that was a good idea. Sure, the gravelly tone was in the air, making noises, but he didn’t know what words it was carrying.

It was something that no longer mattered, anyway.

His face was burning.

“What’re-?”

The roar of fire attacked his ears, and he shied away from the grip that held him.

“Dean! We have to go! We have to go _now!_ ”

                The hunter panicked. It was hard to see Cas’s expression through the haze of the fire.

                “I’m so sorry, Dean. I’m sorry,” Cas’s tone was pleading. Confusion bit through the flames. How had he even reached Dean? Cas couldn’t zap anywhere, and Dean was _downstairs._

 _Tortured._ Unreachable.

The fire turned red, and then black.

\---

A second of deliberation, an inner war between Cas’s loyalty to Dean, knowing how Dean would resent him later – if he even remembered – and the instinct to protect him.

Dean’s expression was tortured, his eyes darting to things Cas couldn’t see, those demons of Dean’s mind refusing to relinquish their grip on the hunter.

A sour taste filled Castiel’s mouth as he knocked out Dean with a well-placed fist. As much as he hated himself for it, they were running out of time.

“Cas! What the hell?” He heard a door slam accompanied with a protesting whine from the Impala, and then running footsteps as Cas caught Dean’s unconscious body.

_The last time I supported him, it was much more difficult.  I don’t think he was ever this light._

Sam was in his face, glancing at Dean with worried eyes, anger in the lines of his mouth. The concern turned to unbridled fury, a knife glare of accusation.

“What the hell did you do that for? I know he’s been _off_ lately but that’s no reason to whale on my brother-”

Cas’s expression hardened. “We need to leave, Sam. Before Lucifer’s knight finds us, we have to leave _now._ ”

“Cas, _wait._ At least _tell_ me what the hell that was-”

Cas growled in frustration, the urgency almost painful, mingled with the fear he had for Dean.

“We don’t have time! Are you going to help me get him into the Impala and return us to the demon fortress unharmed? I do not possess the knowledge to operate a vehicle, _let alone_ Dean’s baby!” He hissed.

Sam’s eyebrows drew together in concern.

The drive back was almost unbearable.  Cas kept glancing to the backseat where Dean lay, the blood on his forehead making Castiel’s guilt worse, wishing that he was in the back with him – perhaps to try and ease the pain he caused his friend.

Sam hadn’t allowed the former angel anywhere near his brother. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough, Cas? I know we have to get back, I get that. But that wasn’t the way to do it, man.”

Cas didn’t say a word. Sam didn’t know about Dean, and he meant to keep it that way, at least until it either improved or Dean told his brother himself.

“I did what I had to,” he muttered, watching out of the dirty passenger window as tendrils of red tore through the white of the sky, rising up from the earth. A blood-red sunrise.

It reminded him of countless years of watching the sun’s path, something constant to guide him in the solace he searched to watch it. From the very beginning, the other angels hadn’t understood.

It was perhaps too hopeful to think humans would.


	37. You don't need to summon doubt, he's already got his foot in the door.

He’d left Dean with his brother watching over him, under the pretence of guilt. The guilt _was_ there, but that wasn’t why he was leaving for what he hoped would be momentarily.

He knew the risk he was taking by just _leaving_ the bunker and not telling them, if Abbadon found him…

It was all he could do.

He shivered as he walked further and further away from the bunker, trying to cover his bare arms. His legs ached already, as if the muscles were sick of supporting a soul that would harm his friend.

_I will try to find someone to help you, my friend. I will try, as I’ve always done before._

They had been through so much turmoil together, and for something like this to befall Dean, something so painful, so buried in their past to surface abruptly…

It was wrong.

Dean was a hunter, a warrior, physical injuries were unimportant and a mere nuisance to his existence when he felt every single one of them and healed so slowly.

He knew that Dean couldn’t handle another mental battle. Hell had weakened him, worry for his brother had taken nearly everything he had during the trials. In short, the life of a hunter had moulded him to be strong, only to cripple him when it really mattered.

The split decision meant he hadn’t had time to steal the metal tin that held the ingredients required to summon a crossroads demon, let alone trying to find a picture of himself in some obscure validation card.

It wasn’t a mere crossroads demon he was searching for.

 “Crowley,” he grunted, the name snatched away by the early morning breeze.

He waited, rubbing his arms for warmth. Perhaps the demon wasn’t listening, too busy running away from Abbadon.

The harsh morning sun had bleached the dirt road of all colour, impairing Cas’s vision like it too had finally betrayed him. A penance for raising a hand against Dean willingly.  

“What, not even a sext? I’m hurt. Castiel, _Angel of The Lord_. Or should I not call you that anymore? Too soon, maybe?”

Cas shielded his eyes from the sun’s glare, waiting until Crowley walked into view.

“Forgive me, as much as I _enjoy_ booty calls, perhaps at a cross-road in broad daylight is not the wisest decision when Abbadon’s just waiting to sink her teeth into you.”

“I was under the impression she wants you, not me,” Cas replied.

Crowley shrugged. “Devil’s in the details, Cas. The whore seems rather _particular_ in who she wants first. Word is it’s you, to get back at Fric and Frack.  Apparently she didn’t appreciate being Frankenstein’s Monster’s Bride _and_ being set on fire.”

Cas ran a hand through his hair. _The more time I spend out in the open, the bigger chance she has to find me, and through me, Dean and Sam._

“So…” Crowley rolled back onto his heels expectantly, and back again. “What was it you so hesitantly called for?”

“It’s Dean,” his voice wavered pathetically.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “When is it not the denim-wrapped walking angst?”

Cas squinted, seeing movement behind Crowley. “What- ? _You!”_ Cas snarled.

The girl walked forward, looking vaguely surprised at Castiel’s outburst.

“Cas really? You surely know from your brief meander into hell a newly made demon is bound to follow their mentor, at _least_ for a few decades.”

“Where’s pretty face? Aren’t you his winged bitch? Shouldn’t he have taught you some manners by now?” The girl asked, and Cas bristled.

“Stay away from him!” He snarled. “You don’t understand the _damage_ you have caused with your presence. I was afraid the minute he saw you. The very real threat of him slipping away from me.”

Her eyebrows rose. She turned to Crowley in confusion. “I have no idea what this goof is crowing about. Do you?”

Castiel advanced on her.

“Easy, feathers. Surely you’re here for something other than conflict?” Her voice was a constant hiss, a familiar attack on his supernatural senses, or it would have been, if they worked.

“The _former_ angel doesn’t need to spell it out, Olivia. Why don’t you go find us another safe house while Cas and I talk?”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“That was an order, darling,” Crowley murmured, not looking at her. He waited until she disappeared before saying anything.

“Honestly, I didn’t know the hunter would snap back to his old ways. One out of a million chances, right?” Crowley’s voice was almost bewildered, enough that Cas found himself believing the demon.

“There is no one else to turn to.”

“So you turn to me? I’m flattered. You and Moose not on the best of terms, eh?”

Cas looked away. “I had to knock Dean out to get him back to our…safe house. I don’t know what to do.”

 “Causing painful flashbacks is my forte, I don’t cure them,” Crowley said. “Perhaps there is someone you’re forgetting, angel. _Death._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shit's about to get real.


	38. Sing for your silent scream

“Death is your solution?” Cas asked, doubtfully.

“After all we’ve been through…yes, Death. Mind you, after the _last_ skirmish, he won’t do it for free.”

“You know, I think that is exactly what the little bird needs. But maybe after I cut those little wings off, I’ll see to it he gets a _one on one_ with the pale guy,” a voice purred.

Castiel’s blood went cold.

Crowley’s expression froze. They both turned to see a tall, slender woman with tight black curls pinned to her head. It didn’t matter she was in a different vessel.

“ _Abbadon_.”

The sound of howling filled the cross-roads.

“Don’t bring yourself to a hell-hound fight, whore. That new meatsuit of yours is going to get ripped to shreds,” Crowley said.

Cas had just enough time to wish he’d brought his blade, before Lucifer’s knight was bowled over by the hellhound.

“Don’t stay out too late, Olivia,” Crowley called, sounding oddly protective, before he disappeared.

_Shit._

Cas could only watch as Abbadon fought what seemed to be air, shaking it off easily, tossing the demon aside. “You need to work on your face clawing,” she spat blood, wiping her torn face.

Gradually, the empty space she was looking at with disdain became smoke, and then a crumpled form lying on the dirt.

“Tell Crowley I’ll find him soon enough,” she turned to Cas. “As for you…we’re going to have fun, you and I.” She grinned, the slit in her lip gaping grotesquely, blood running down her chin.

\---

He’d tried to struggle, earning a blow to his head that had turned his vision black.

When he’d awoken dimly to blood in his mouth, his head feeling the size of a small planet, she was immediately in his face, occupying his whole line of sight.

“I’ve heard about your pretty little wings…you being the _only_ one left with feathers, you’re quite an easy thing to find when standing next to the person I want to kill nearly as much as you,” she murmured, speech slurring slightly through the torn skin of her face. She blinked, and used delicate fingers to rip it off.

Softly, blood dripped to a floor he couldn’t see.

Nauseated, he tried to find something else to concentrate on.

Panicking, he immediately wished he didn’t as he came to full awareness. His mind was screaming, questioning the impossibility of her chaining his wings.

All six of them.

He couldn’t see them, but he could _feel_ them, for the first time since the very moment Metatron had stolen his grace, those precious few seconds in which he was very aware of his true form.

 He breathed heavily through gritted teeth, trying not to hyperventilate.

She raked her fingers across the joints of his wings until she drew blood. He baulked against the irons that held him, holding his breath to not make a sound.

Vaguely, he knew there were runes on them, runes that possibly didn’t matter anymore. He couldn’t have fled even if he wanted to.

_This abomination will not hear me scream. No matter what happens to my vessel, or my true form._

“There are things Lucifer chose to share with his knights, angel. I willhave your screams, one way or another. _You will sing for me, little bird._ ”

_I’m sorry, Dean._

**Author's Note:**

> My first fanfic.  
> I had a lot of fun with this.  
> Let me know what you think <3  
> So guys, this one is finished.  
> The sequel: Relinquish, is up.  
> That is all.


End file.
